


Bitter Harvest

by firesign10



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, Drinking, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Promiscuity, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 16:38:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firesign10/pseuds/firesign10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchesters are hunters and brothers . . . and that's all. Dean abruptly ended their deeper relationship some years ago, much to Sam's confusion and dismay. They've since made an uneasy peace with each other, continuing to hunt as a team. A chance encounter with someone from their past causes underlying tensions to come to a head. Sam and Dean have to deal with old choices, and make some new ones.</p>
<p>Set after the end of Season 5, but Lucifer was thrown into the Cage while still in Nick's vessel, so there was no resultant arc with Sam in Hell, soulless!Sam or the Leviathan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2013 Wincest Big Bang on LiveJournal. Thanks to wincest_whore for modding this Bang! It's a blast to be participating in!
> 
> One million kudos to weekendship, who created the three fantastic art pieces that accompany this story. She was so enthusiastic from the moment she read the story, and collaborating with her was a delight. Her vision and artistry produced powerful, emotional moments etched in beautiful detail. Thank you so much, and I greatly hope that we'll get to work together again! Please check out her [Art Post](http://weekendship.livejournal.com/1687.html%20)!
> 
> Many thanks to my betas, pipisafoat and and tolakasa for their terrific work in polishing up this puppy. You guys rock!!
> 
> Finally, huge thanks and love to roxymissrose, who tirelessly read this story continually while I was writing it and gave me great feedback as well as massive moral support. Without her, this story would never have been completed, much less posted. Thank you, bb!!!!

The Winchesters were relaxing after their last hunt. "Relaxing" to them meant staying in a motel that had actual working air conditioning, and was next to a decent diner and bar. Dean slept for twelve hours the first night, his body needing the rest after a forty-eight hour stakeout that had culminated in a pitched battle with a werewolf and its mate. Sam slept about as hard but woke up before Dean, as he was less able to ignore the light bleeding through the motel's flimsy curtains. He took advantage of the time alone to take a long, hot shower without Dean bitching at him about using up all the hot water, letting the heat ease the aches throughout his body. He came out with a towel around his waist while he rubbed another one over his hair, picking up his duffel and poking around for clean clothes. Maybe they could hit the laundromat while they were between jobs ― his stash of clean T-shirts and boxers was pretty much non-existent. He dropped both towels as he got ready to dress when movement caught his eye and he turned to find Dean awake, his wide green eyes staring at Sam as he stood next to the bed completely naked.

Sam grit his teeth, cursing himself for not dressing in the bathroom, but he forced himself to casually step into boxers and hitch them up around his waist. "Hey, how're you feeling?" he asked, striving to sound normal while pulling his last clean T-shirt over his damp hair. "You were out cold." He wished he hadn't been naked when Dean woke up. More than that, he wished that being naked wasn't an issue between them. Growing up so closely together, they'd seen each other naked countless times. Then Sam had gone away to Stanford, where he realized bone-deep how odd their up-bringing had truly been. He'd never been naked in front of his brother again unless one of them was sick or wounded. Because that's how regular people lived ― they wore towels and robes when they were around their siblings. Around most people, in fact, unless they were lovers. And Sam was Dean's brother, not his lover. 

Hadn't been his lover for a long time now.

Sam resolutely ignored the stab of pain caused by that statement, a sensation he imagined felt like an ice pick sliding into his heart. He closed his eyes, shutting the memory of Dean out of his mind. Not thinking about Dean's warm, freckled skin pressed against his, not remembering the feel of Dean's strong, callused hands sliding over his body. Not recalling how lost he would get in those full lips moving on his mouth, how Dean's eyes sparkled as he teased Sam, how Dean's thick cock slid so gloriously into his body. So many intense, passionate memories ― no, now they were fantasies, they were never going to happen again, and they were best let go of right now before Sam's brain got all fuddled up and his dick got into the act. Boxers were not sturdy enough to hide a boner when he was up close and personal with his half-naked older brother.

Dean's eyes were still sleepy, but they were steadily fixed on Sam nonetheless. He pursed his lips as he studied his younger brother. Sam tried to gaze back nonchalantly, but he felt a drop of sweat start sliding down his back, as well as a couple on his temples. "Come on, Dean, get a move on so we can get some breakfast. I'm starving for some real food after two days of jerky and protein bars." Sam tried to sound grumpy, hoping that the prospect of food would be enough to distract Dean from the whole naked thing, as well as get him moving.

The breakfast strategy appeared to work, as Dean sat up and swung his legs over the bed, yawning hugely as he ran a hand over his head and down his face. He stumbled in the bathroom, and Sam smirked as he heard colorful curses ― Dean apparently had discovered that the hot water was gone. Well, cold water would mean a short shower and a speedy walk to breakfast, at any rate. Sam hastily finished dressing, his stomach growling as he readied his duffel bag for their departure. Eat up, caffeine up, fill up, and then ― hit the road and head for the next hunt. And try to leave the memories behind yet again.

# ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @

Michael gritted his teeth as he dug his hunting knife into the ogre's body. The plan was to salt and burn it, but first it had to be dismembered and each section blessed with holy water. Not undo-able, but really fucking messy. And the reputation that ogres had for their stench? Turned out to be absolutely true. Maybe he should start packing some Febreze in his hunting bag.

He swiped his long, dark blond hair out of his face and grimly sawed at the next piece. Job wasn't going to get done any sooner for grumbling about it.

Several disgusting, tiring hours later, Michael staggered into his motel room, dirt crusted on his clothing and skin from the gravedigging. Holy water, ogre blood, and sweat soaked his clothes. Combined with the graveyard dirt, the moisture created a noisome film over his entire body that he couldn't wait to remove. He'd barely flipped the lock before he was peeling off his clothing, kicking it aside as he walked to the bathroom. Praying for ample hot water and decent pressure, he turned the shower on and stepped into the tub. He raised his face to the showerhead; water cascaded down him in little rivulets, and he sighed as it ran through the dirt and left little tracks of clean on his skin. He just stood there for several moments, relaxing in the heat and steam before he picked up the cheap shampoo and poured some into his matted hair.

_Asher would be pleased about today,_ he thought, rubbing the shampoo into his thick hair. No more kids would die because of the ogre's traps in the woods. That made it a win in his book.

Donning clean jeans and a light blue T-shirt after drying off with the threadbare towels, Michael shoved his feet into his boots and threw on a jacket before he went out for some food. The diner where he'd had a deliciously greasy breakfast at that morning was closed, but there was a bar down the block. Judging by the aroma of fried goodness wafting through the evening air, they served at least the basic pub fare. Michael headed straight there, his stomach urging him on.

As he walked, the thought occurred to him that perhaps he'd find some companionship at the bar as well. He was a strapping young man with a healthy libido, and it had been a while since he'd enjoyed any physical pleasure from anyone other than himself. Michael knew an actual relationship would be unlikely while he was a hunter, but sometimes the odd evening might be spent with a . . . compatible companion.

He started humming as he continued his walk, anticipating a cold beer and hot food. So many times, it was the simple pleasures that gratified.

The familiar, heavy scent of fried onion rings and beer filled the room as Michael entered the bar. Booths with dark red leather upholstery ringed the room's perimeter, with thick-legged wooden tables staggered around the floor. A big, square bar sat in the center of the room, surrounded by tall, battered stools, most of which were occupied. Warm yellow light gleamed from antique brass ceiling fixtures. The place was fairly busy tonight, with more than half of the table seats filled in addition to the full bar stools. A couple of pool tables off to one side had a good-sized crowd around them, and Michael contemplated the idea of doing a little hustling after he ate. Nothing, however, was happening until he'd had a meal and a couple of beers first.

And a delicious meal it turned out to be. A thick, juicy burger with all the fixings, onion rings fried up hot and hissing, with the onions nestled sweet and tender inside their crispy coating, all washed down with a dark, hearty, local draft beer. Michael felt content as he savored the last scraps of his onion rings and swallowed the final inch of his draft. His eyes drifted over to the pool tables. People had come and gone around them, but there were still over a dozen people watching and occasionally applauding.

Michael wiped his hands, placed money for the meal plus tip on the table and got up, heading casually over to the tables. Time to scope out the scene, see if he could make a few bucks.

He made his way through the ring of observers, moving slowly and taking his time. Finally on the inside of the crowd, Michael caught his breath in surprise. One of the players had a face he hadn't seen in years, but was unforgettable. A face that defined masculine beauty, with a strong jaw and clean lines, counterbalanced with thickly lashed, large eyes and a plush mouth, lips pink and full, spiked hair and a wide, devilish grin. Michael knew he was looking at Dean Winchester.

It was as if the years rushed past him as he stood there, staring at Dean hunched over the pool table. Another cheap motel back in the day, his mother Joanna working as the manager to support her two boys, and the Winchesters checking in. He'd been the one to register them, since that had been the day Joanna had taken his little brother Asher to the hospital. Five minutes with them and Michael had been positive that they were lovers, but then Dean had said they were brothers. Michael grinned to himself as he recalled rolling his eyes in disbelief at Dean's protestation, and how he had muttered snarkily under his breath. He'd been a smart-ass at fourteen, Michael knew, but there was just something about the Winchesters that belied a strictly familial relationship, even to his teen-age eyes.

Then the curiosity about the Winchesters' real relationship had ceased to matter when they had revealed why they were in town. They were hunters ― they went after monsters and demons, all of the dark creatures that most people never even knew existed. Went after them and killed them. And they were there to hunt whatever was making all those kids in town so sick. Including Michael's little brother, Asher. Asher was at the hospital too, silent and pale, and Michael's stomach hurt with how bad he felt for Asher and for their mom.

That was how Michael found out about the dark and what lurked in it. That was the day his world changed.

It was something called a _shtriga_ , a hooded crone of a creature that was attacking the children of the town. It drew out the life force from children's bodies, causing them to lapse into a coma and eventually die. Sam and Dean Winchester had rolled into town in their shiny black Impala, told Michael about the _shtriga_ , asked for his help. They needed a child to be bait, and he was old enough to understand what they wanted. They asked him to lie quietly in bed and lure out the _shtriga_. They would be waiting just outside, and they'd kill it. But Michael had been too scared to do it. He couldn't face the _shtriga_ , and he'd said no.

Until it was Asher. Until it was Asher who was lying in the hospital, Joanna sitting next to him with tear-stained cheeks. Michael knew his job was to take care of Asher, his baby brother, and he knew what he had to do. He came to the Winchesters' room and knocked on the door, faced Dean when he opened it. Michael told them _he_ was the older brother, it was _his duty_ to protect Asher. His responsibility. Dean hesitated, and Michael asked him what Dean would for _his_ little brother. Would he do anything? Because Michael would. He saw Dean turn to look at Sam before he looked back at Michael and nodded. Dean was an older brother too. He got it. He understood.

So there was Michael, scared as hell, lying under a blanket in the bed while Sam and Dean waited outside the door. The _shtriga_ arrived, but fought the Winchesters off. Michael dove underneath the bed, watching in horror while the _shtriga_ attacked Sam, pinning him down and drawing out his life force in a thin, wispy stream of white. Dean refused to lose his brother, though, and he fired the shot that ended the _shtriga_. It fell and withered into dust, freeing the captive life forces and restoring the sick children to full health.

It was a happy ending in that the children were healed and the threat gone, but Michael's innocence died that day. He knew what lived in the dark now, what preyed upon man, and how safety was often just an illusion. Regardless of that, he was able to live normally afterward, helping his mom at the motel and watching over Asher.

A bray of laughter cleared the mists of memory from Michael's head. Dean had won another game of pool and was triumphantly brandishing his cue as he stuffed bills into his jeans pocket with the other hand. Michael couldn't help smiling at Dean's frank glee in winning; his good humor was infectious. He saw Dean scan the room and followed his eyes to the target of his search.

Sam.

The other Winchester sat at a table off to the side of the bar, a beer and a bowl of pretzels in front of him. A plate with a few scraps of salad on it was pushed to the side. He was thumbing at his phone, but at Dean's call he looked up, eyes searching for his brother. Sam's mouth stretched wide in a smile and he gave Dean a thumbs-up. Dean beamed back at him before turning back to the table, looking for new challengers. He received no takers, though, everyone now declining good-naturedly, so he moved over to Sam, swinging a leg over the chair next to his and clapping his younger brother on the shoulder.

Dean swigged a beer, poking his elbow into Sam's arm. Sam looked down at the worn surface of the table as he grinned, his usually stern face as relaxed as Michael had ever seen it. He was struck by how much younger Sam looked this way, affection and laughter wiping years of worry off his face. Now the two men faced each other, and Michael noted how eyes fell to mouths and flicked back up again. He found himself wondering all afresh about how close the brothers really were. . . .

They pulled back from each other a little, breaking the connection they'd just shared. Michael shook his head ― now they looked just like any two guys out for a few beers. Dean's eye roved over the available women while Sam ordered another beer, flirting lightly with the attractive bartender, a curvy woman with a mane of dark hair cascading down her back. She batted her eyes at Sam as she subtly arched her back, offering a more prominent display of her generous bosom under a tight Magic Hat Brewery T-shirt. Sam spoke a few words to her, apparently letting her down easy, judging by the way her posture relaxed and her mouth briefly pouted before she shrugged and smiled cheerfully again. Michael gave the man credit; the bartender was sexy as hell, and declining such a freely presented offer wasn't necessarily easy.

Dean spoke quietly into Sam's ear, and Sam shook his head. Dean smirked and poked hard at Sam's shoulder, receiving a bitch-face in response. Both men lifted and drained their bottles, then pushing their chairs back as they stood. Dean tossed some bills onto the bar as he and Sam turned to leave. Michael could see Dean's hand not quite lost in the folds of Sam's flannel shirt, momentarily nestled in the small of Sam's back. It made Michael think of squiring a date around, with its blend of possessiveness and chivalry. Michael wondered about that ― it was an unusual gesture between two men, much more the action of a man and his date. And that wasn't even addressing the fact that _these_ two men were brothers.

Perhaps Sam realized it too, for he abruptly stepped away from Dean, turning from his brother. Dean's arm dropped down stiffly by his side as he continued walking out of the bar, Sam trailing a step behind. The quick descent into awkwardness surprised Michael ― he wondered what the heck was going on between them. From moving in harmony together, they were now totally at odds with each other ― it was puzzling. Their exit left a few ladies with downcast expressions behind them. Michael hurried toward the door himself. He knew there was no way they could have recognized him ― he'd gone from boy to man in seven years ― and he really wanted to catch up and talk with them.

 

Dean and Sam were walking toward the same motel where Michael was staying at, so he hastened after them. The Winchesters stopped at a room at the end, but just as Sam opened the door, Dean whirled around with a knife in his hand. Michael stopped and held up his empty hands. "Whoa! Easy there, I'm not an enemy. I just wanted to talk to you."

Dean's hand remained ready to strike, and Sam stood right behind him, backing up his brother. "Who are you and what do you want to talk about?" asked Dean warily, his eyes cold.

Michael left his hands up to show his peaceful intent as he said, "Well, first of all, we've met before. You don't recognize me because I was just a kid seven years ago." Dean's knife hand lowered an inch or two, so Michael slowly lowered his hands as well, leaving them open. "We met in Fitchburg, Wisconsin, in 2006. You two came to town to hunt a _shtriga_ that was attacking the kids there."

He saw the light go on in their eyes as the connection clicked. "Michael? Michael!" they both exclaimed, whacking his arm and back. "Come on in, dude, come on in!" Dean said as Sam stepped back into the room. Dean pulled Michael in with him as he entered. "Damn, look at you, you're a full grown man now!" Dean continued, prompting a grin from Michael as Sam bolted the door and laid a salt line across the entryway. Dean pushed Michael into a chair and pulled some beers out of the mini fridge, handing one to both Sam and Michael before he twisted the top off of his. Dean plopped into another chair while Sam sat on the end of one of the beds, both men looking relaxed and happy to see the young hunter.

"So, Michael, what the hell! How are you, man? How are your mom and Asher?" Sam said with a smile. He pulled his jacket off, throwing it onto the other bed, and started to kick his boots off.

Michael took a pull on his beer before answering. "Mom's good. Met a guy, got married. He's a good guy. They moved to Milwaukee a few years ago. They're happy there." He took another long swallow, bracing himself for the next part. "Asher . . . Asher's dead." His stomach hurt as he said it ― it never got any easier.

# ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @

After the _shtriga_ , Joanna continued working at the motel. One day she met Don, a trucker staying overnight there, and he turned out to be a really nice guy. He courted Joanna for months, and was considerate and loving to her and her boys. He played catch with Michael and Asher, squired Joanna to dinner and around town. After a few months of long-distance runs, he switched to a local route so he could be home most nights. He taught Michael how to drive, and slipped him a twenty whenever he had a date. His mother eventually left the motel and moved into a cozy split-level when she and Don married, working part-time while the boys were in school. Asher played trumpet in the school orchestra and turned out to be a nerd when he grew older, while Michael was on the varsity soccer team his senior year of high school. Life was good.

That life ended when a black dog slunk into town. Reports of a huge, black dog lurking on the outskirts of town ran like wildfire. Some said it had glowing eyes and was twice as big as a regular dog. At first, no one paid it too much heed ― it was just a stray dog, albeit rather menacing in appearance. No one knew what a black dog really was . . . or how dangerous it could be.

Then the first body turned up. And another. By the third death, children were whisked indoors as soon as the sun began to set, and no one wanted to walk anywhere alone. The police said to stay in groups and keep inside after twilight. Joanna sternly told Asher and Michael to obey those rules, and the boys solemnly agreed. Michael promised he'd take extra care to look after Asher. They would listen and obey and stay safe. 

One Friday, Asher realized that he'd forgotten a folder at school that held all his research for his science fair project. Joanna wasn't home from work yet, and Michael was running a little late from a soccer game. Asher was determined to place at the fair that year, and not having his research to use over the weekend was really going to set his project back. He looked outside and saw the sun was still above the trees. He had plenty of time. He decided to make a run for it, shoving his feet into his sneakers and hastening out of the house. He ran so fast to school that he was gasping for breath when he got there. Asher found an open door and slipped inside, hastily unlocking his locker to grab his folder in triumph. _Hurry, hurry_ , his heart beat in his ears as he skidded down the hallway and out the door. The sun seemed to have moved too quickly and was lower than he expected when he left the school building, and he shivered with fear as he pounded down the sidewalk. _I'll cut through the playground, that'll be faster. Oh God, please let me be fast enough_ , he prayed as the darkness began to thicken around him. Please, oh please . . .

He thought he was going to make it. He was at the edge of the playground, he could see his house through the trees, when a pair of glowing red eyes appeared in front of him. Asher fell backwards on the asphalt as he tried to stop, backpedaling frantically to keep from running into the enormous, black shaggy canine standing in front of him. He knew immediately that this dog was evil. Tears welled up in his eyes as he thought how heartbroken his mom was going to be, how harshly Michael was going to blame himself, and it was no one's fault but his own. The huge dog padded softly toward him, growling softly. Asher closed his eyes and prayed that it wouldn't hurt. His prayer went unanswered. It hurt a lot.

Joanna was never quite the same after Asher was gone. Her ready smile became rare, and her laughter faded. The loss of her youngest son smudged permanent rings of shadow around her eyes. Eventually, Don packed them up to move to Milwaukee. "I think maybe if she isn't surrounded by where you guys grew up, you know?" he explained sadly to Michael. "Everything around here reminds her of him, and she can't get away from the pain." He looked sorrowfully at Michael as he laid a broad, callused hand on Michael's shoulder. "We want you to come with us, kiddo. No one's cutting you off here. You're pretty much grown up, but you're still our boy. We just ― we gotta get outta here. Get a fresh start, someplace new." And Michael could hear the love and sincerity, knew that Don meant every word. He had been a good and caring stepfather ― always respectful to the memory of the boys' dead father, but providing a warm, strong guidance throughout the boys' crucial teenage years. Michael genuinely loved the man, and was grateful for his support. But he knew he wasn't moving to Milwaukee now or any time in the future. After the _shtriga_ and the black dog, he knew what his job was now. He was headed into the darkness and what lay waiting there. Michael was going to be a hunter.

# ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @

Michael blinked away the tears that always filled his eyes when he talked about Asher. "So Mom and Don moved. Too many memories, you know? They like Milwaukee pretty well." _I'm just stuck with the memories_ , he thought. _No getting away from them for me. Isn't that what penance is all about?_

He shook his head and looked up. Both Winchesters were looking intently at him, a studied gaze laced with sympathy. "That's rough," Sam said quietly. "I'm sorry, man."

"Yeah, me too," said Dean. 

"Thanks. Keep thinking it's gonna get better, but really? It never does, does it?" Michael's wide mouth twisted wryly.

"'Fraid not, man," Dean said huskily. "You learn to keep it locked away, but it never gets better." He roughly patted Michael's back before downing a long swig of beer.

Sam got up and dug inside a battered canvas duffel, extricating a bottle of whiskey. Grabbing the plastic cups from the bathroom, he poured a couple of fingers in them and handed them out to Dean and Michael. Raising his own, he said, "To Asher." The others echoed his words, and they all shot the whiskey together. Michael hadn't drunk a lot of hard liquor before, mostly sticking to beer, so the whiskey's burn made him choke a moment, spluttering as Dean thumped him on the back. Sam poured them a second helping, but this one they sipped as they sat back down.

"So, Michael, where does that leave you? You passed on Milwaukee life, so what are you doing now?" Dean took a drink as he waited for Michael's answer.

Sam kicked Dean in the calf, prompting an oath from his brother. "Dude, don't you get it? Look at him. Look where he is." Sam waited a moment before continuing, "Dean, he's hunting. He's a hunter."


	2. Chapter 2

Sam saw the impact of his statement cross Dean's face. First there was the surprise, the shock, of Sam's deduction. It was quickly replaced by resignation. Probably seventy-five to eighty percent of hunters ended up on that path because of personal loss. Look at their own dad ― ex-Marine, mechanic, family man, until the death of his wife pushed him into the life. Bobby. Gordon. Elkins. Rufus. Jo. Countless others. The danger in the dark revealed through the death of a loved one, the resultant need to act, to do something, to seek revenge and fight back, to protect the ones who didn't know.

And now Michael had joined that list. Back then, Sam had hoped the brush with the _shtriga_ wouldn't change Michael's destiny that much. Apparently, it was not how things had worked out.

They talked about nothing in particular as they finished their whiskey, letting the words and memory of Asher simply lie there quietly. When they were done, Michael rose to go. He was just a few rooms down from the Winchesters, so he shook their hands again, bade them goodnight, and left. Dean closed the door behind him, leaning heavily against it with one hand and rubbing the back of his neck with the other. Sam could see the fatigue in the lines of Dean's body, but also the defeat. They'd saved Asher only to lose him in the end. Sam knew how a loss like that took the fight out of Dean. Saving people ― especially kids ― was Dean's _raison d'être_ , and he never took a loss well, much less the loss of a child.

"Dean ― we couldn't have known. We did everything we could, and Asher had a lot more years because of it. C'mon, Dean, don't blame yourself. We can't be everywhere all the time." Sam walked over to his brother, gripped his shoulder. "Dude, it's not your fault. It's not."

Dean rubbed his eyes and cleared his throat. "Yeah, yeah, you're right. You're right. I just ― shit, he was still a kid, Sammy. Just a teenager. It's not right, y'know?" He walked over to one of the beds and plopped down. "And now Michael's a fucking hunter. Jesus, what is he, twenty-two? What the fuck is that? He's a fucking baby himself."

Sam laughed harshly. "Dean, I was twenty-two when I got back in the life. And both of us grew up in it. We never even had 'normal'. Do I wish he'd stayed off this path? Sure. But he's grown up enough to pick his own road now, and he's picked this. It's his right." He sat down on the other bed, finally giving in to his tiredness. "Fuck, I'm beat. You want the bathroom first?"

Dean heaved himself off of the bed with a groan. "Sure, just gonna pee and brush." He walked into the bathroom and shut the door, which was too flimsy to muffle the cascade of his bedtime voiding. Inured to the deficiencies of motel bathrooms, Sam barely blinked.

With a deep sigh, Sam let his weariness slide him from merely thoughtful into downright moody, brooding himself over Asher's sad, short story after telling Dean not to. He quickly changed out of his clothes into soft track pants and a T-shirt, wanting to avoid any more awkward unclothed moments with Dean. Spending all of his time with his brother was a lot easier if certain issues were never brought into the light. He puttered about repacking his duffel, pulling out clean clothes for the morning, then scooted into the bathroom when Dean came out. He took his time flossing, brushing, washing his face, and peeing, wanting to give Dean enough time to change and get into bed.

Turning off the light, he cracked the door and saw Dean under the covers, only his spiky hair visible on the pillow. Sam crossed to his own bed, turned out the light, and slid under his covers. They had actually allowed the maid in that morning, so the sheets were faintly starched, cool and crisp, and they felt good against his skin. The thought of having someone curled up with him, their warm skin and breath against his body, drifted through his drowsy mind, and it filled him with an ache, a yearning, that he dared not fully admit, lest it consume him. Instead, he turned over and began to do breathing exercises in his mind. In a few minutes, he was asleep.

# ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @

Dean heard when Sammy dropped off. He'd spent far too many nights only a couple of feet away from his brother not to know Sammy's sleep breathing pattern versus his awake one. And that didn't even count the nights they'd spent wrapped around each other, breathing on each other's skin. It had been a long time since those nights.

Dean rolled onto his back, restless and with his thoughts roiling. He squinched up his eyes in an effort to quell the pictures rolling through his tired brain. Bad enough he'd had an incestuous relationship with his baby brother. Bad enough they hadn't been able to keep their hands off each other, fucking everywhere they hunted, like a damn sex tour across America. It was wrong for society, but it had been right for them. It made them stronger, made their rough life a little easier, because they had each other. He had loved Sammy so much; still did if truth were told, even though now he had to hide it. He knew Sam didn't think of Dean like that anymore; if Dean suggested otherwise, he was pretty sure Sam's fist would smash him in the face, after going through the breakup Dean had forced on him years ago.

Dean made the brutal decision that they had to stop being lovers and go back to just being brothers. It was Dean who pushed Sam's distraught hands away, who left for a week to make sure the separation took. It had taken everything Dean had, every ounce of strength and determination and resolve, to turn away from Sammy's tear-streaked face, his pleading eyes and choked words, and walk out the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something big and dark fall to the floor behind him, and he grimly kept on walking. If he had turned back then, it would all have been for nothing, because he would have run to his lover, his baby brother, and he would have held him, kissed him, promised him that it was okay and those words were all lies. _I didn't mean it ― I love you, Sammy, always will, so sorry, baby, so so so sorry_. And he wouldn't do that. He couldn't. The break had to be made if Sam was to have any chance of a better life. Of surviving.

It was the angels sending him to the past that convinced Dean to end it. He'd seen his mother make the deal that started the whole ugly spiral: her deal that led to John's deal that finally led to Dean's own deal. Everyone in his family trading their lives and souls for their loved ones. Sammy was Dean's loved one in every way possible ― his brother, his lover, his best friend, his hunting partner. Seeing his family devastated by the path of destruction Azazel and Lucifer caused, and realizing that their love was a tool of that devastation? Dean decided that they'd be better off ending it and reduce their weakness, their vulnerability. The best way for that to happen was to cut the bond between him and Sammy. They couldn't stop being brothers, and they needed to remain partners, so they had to stop being lovers. And it didn't matter how agonizing that split was, how much Dean's soul cried out for Sam's, how badly his body craved his brother's tall, muscular form. It had to end.

Dean rolled over again, punching the pillow and kicking at the sheets. Goddammit, he just wanted to get some sleep! Seeing Michael had stirred up all these thoughts and feelings from the past again. He'd felt a real kinship to Michael and Asher, back then. Michael had been so fierce, taking care of his younger brother during the _shtriga_ hunt. Michael had seen through the Winchesters back then too. Dean could picture the teenager clear as anything, standing behind the motel front desk and registering a room for them. Michael had looked at Dean, then at Sam, then back at Dean, and asked "King or two queens?"

"Two queens."

Michael had rolled his eyes and muttered what Dean swore to this day sounded like "Yeah, I bet."

Dean had looked at him in disbelief. _"What'd_ you say?" This kid looked too young to be that snarky!

"Nice car!" Michael said, flashing an innocent smile. Dean looked at him suspiciously, but then turned away, key in hand.

Yeah, that little exchange had surprised and amused Dean. And now Michael was all grown up and a hunter himself. It dawned on him that they'd never asked Michael what he was doing there, but they were meeting for breakfast, so it could wait until then.

Dean felt a little more relaxed now, so he turned over one last time, cocooned into his blanket, concentrated on Sam's steady breathing, and fell asleep.

# ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @

Michael got up early the next morning, despite the late night, and he hurried through his morning routine so he could meet up with the Winchesters for breakfast at the diner a block down from the motel. The diner was a homey place, with lace curtains and little flower-filled glass vases on the tables, Sam and Dean were already sitting in a booth, colorfully upholstered in turquoise pleather, when Michael came through the door, the bell overhead ringing loudly with his entrance. They were sitting across from each other, so Michael slid in next to Dean. "Coffee?" asked the waitress, a pleasant smile on her softly wrinkled face. She had a figure just rounding with middle age and wore the typical cheap diner waitress dress, this version in pale pink with a white collar and a white apron tied around her waist. Her plastic nametag had "Hetty" written on it in black marker.

"Yeah, Hetty, coffee all around please," Dean said, giving her a wide grin. The other two men nodded eager assent to her coffee query. She blushed faintly at the focused attention of three good-looking men.

"You guys know what you want, or do you need a minute?" she went on, glancing at each of them in turn.

"Two over easy, sausage and bacon, hash browns, rye toast," said Dean. "And make that bacon crisp, sweetheart."

Sam and Michael placed their orders as well. "You got it, boys. Pleasure to see young men with such good appetites. Coffee'll be right up." She saluted them with a smile, and went to put in the orders and pour the coffee.

"Damn, I'm so _hungry,_ " Dean grumbled, rubbing his face. He groaned, then dove for a coffee cup when Doris returned with them.

Sam laughed. "Dude, you say that like it's unusual. You're always hungry." He grabbed his own cup, humming with pleasure as he sipped the hot liquid.

Michael watched them with an amused look on his face. "You guys really know each other inside and out, huh? Is it the brother thing, or the years hunting together?" He took the remaining cup and blew on it, not wanting to scorch his tongue and suffer the rest of the day.

Sam and Dean exchanged glances. Michael saw something deeply unhappy pass between them with that look, but Dean's tone was light-hearted when he replied. "Probably both," he said casually, while Sam looked darkly at his coffee cup. "We grew up on the road together, so we were always in each other's pocket. Pretty much the same thing now, 'cept for when I get lucky, then Sammy gets lost." He winked at Michael before slurping more coffee and smacking his lips.

Michael's eyes went to Sam, curious as to his viewpoint, but he was shocked to see an expression of pain flit across Sam's handsome face. Apparently that light-hearted attitude of Dean's wasn't completely shared by his brother. But . . . what caused that pained look? Clearly there were deep emotions in play that Michael didn't understand right now, and he wondered what was really going on in the brothers' relationship.

The food arrived, and Michael's curiosity was buried under a stack of fluffy pancakes served with a little pitcher of warm maple syrup on the side. All three men ate heartily, conversation temporarily curtailed by the business of ingesting hot food. Sam snuck a piece of bacon off Dean's plate and Dean pretended to ignore it, although Michael saw the corner of his mouth twitch in a quickly stifled smile.

Finally sticky mouths and hands were wiped, the waitress cleared the demolished plates, and fresh coffee was poured. The three hunters sat companionably for several minutes, savoring the delicious breakfast and coffee.

"So, Michael, given our respective occupations, I'm curious what you're doing here. Anything in particular bring you to Burwell, Nebraska?" Dean asked lazily, drizzling coffee droplets around the table with his spoon.

Sam bumped his arm, frowning in the direction of his hand. Dean sighed heavily and put his spoon down, wiping the drops up with a napkin. Michael hid a snicker under his hand, but then regarded Sam with a straight face when he continued Dean's train of thought. "Yeah, of course it could be coincidence, and it's great to have run into you, but we were wondering if you're here on a hunt."

Michael felt the weight of the life settle back onto his shoulders. The previous night and this morning both had been a break he hadn't realized he needed ― a chance to really relax, and even more ― to enjoy company. Company that he didn't have to hide anything from, company that understood the burden and danger of hunting. People that he could have a drink with, smile and laugh with, and not feel like a fraud. Or a criminal. But it was always going to be transient.

"No, I just wrapped up a hunt nearby. Pissed-off ogre, taking its own damage on innocents." He took a deep drink of coffee, cradling the warm mug in his hands. "So, do a lot of hunters pair up, or are you two a minority?"

"It depends on the hunt and the hunters," Sam answered. "Some hunters prefer to work in groups or pairs. Some are lone wolves, don't want anything to do with anyone else. Of course, Dean and I," he gestured to his brother, "we've always worked together. Our skills complement each other, and we know how important it is to have someone at your back in the field. There's only been a couple of times that we've -" Sam broke off abruptly and Michael saw that pained expression cross his face again.

"Only been a couple a times we've hunted apart, like when Sammy here was in college," Dean took up the narrative. "Then I was . . . imprisoned far away for a few months, and Sammy was on his own. A year or so after I . . . got released, we split up for about a week. That's it. Rest of it has been the dynamic duo all the way. Now, we've worked with other hunters along the way ― 'specially Bobby Singer, a couple of others ― but we always work together."

"Wow, you were in prison? Shit! How did that happen?" Michael couldn't help exclaiming; he was shocked by Dean's matter-of-fact statement about prison.

"Hunters always run the risk of getting arrested ― we do too much illegal crap not to be. Fake I.D.'s, impersonating officials, desecrating corpses, arson, all that shit. We've been arrested a fuckload of times. Prison, though ― well, maybe more on that another time, but it was a special situation. Once in a lifetime, I hope." Dean sighed and downed half of his coffee. Sam studiously looked out the window, jaw set firmly.

Michael wondered about the last occasion, the week they'd spent apart ― neither man had offered any details on that, not like the other two times they'd hunted apart. If one had been college and the other had been prison, what the hell had been so heavy that it warranted that particular week's split? Looked like no one was going to talk about that right now.

Dean coughed gently. "So, yeah . . . just been traveling around, you know how it goes. Him, me, and the Impala."

Michael smiled and nodded. It was really nice to feel someone was alongside you, in your corner. If last night and today were showing him anything, it was that the isolation of his life was as draining as the hunting itself. Maybe _he_ needed to look for a hunting partner.

# ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @

They split up after breakfast, Sam and Dean to address their laundry and shopping needs and Michael to run some errands. After finishing his to-do list, Michael headed back over to the Winchesters' room around four. They were back as well, clean laundry stacked on the dresser, shopping bags nestled beneath it. Dean was lounging on the bed with a beer in his hand. "Bought cold ones, they're in the fridge," he said as he gestured toward it. Sam came out of the bathroom and grabbed two, popping the tops and handing one to Michael. He took the cold bottle, slugging a good swallow down. "Hits the spot, doesn't it?" Sam grinned at him before taking another long drink himself.

"Sure does!" Michael sighed with pleasure.

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I'm one hundred percent down with that." He finished off his beer. "Now ― we eating in or out tonight?"

# ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @

They opted for eating out and ended up back at the bar, ordering burgers and fries for Dean and Michael and a Caesar salad with chicken for Sam. He also filched fries from the pile on Dean's plate; Sam never admitted it to anyone, but he liked stealing food from Dean's plate. Dean's fries always seemed to taste better. He was feeling pretty good; he and Dean were getting along without the low-lying tension that often colored their time together, and then there was Michael. Michael had grown up to be a really good guy, and Sam was really enjoying spending time with him; he had an easy manner about him, with a laid-back sense of humor. The younger man meshed well with the often-wary Winchesters, and he was damn easy on the eyes as well. He'd grown up tall ― not as tall as Sam, looked to be an inch less than Dean ― with thick, dark blond hair, a wide mouth, and creamy skin that should be illegal on a guy. Sam idly wondered which way Michael swung, and resolved to watch him tonight, see if he could figure it out without asking. He wasn't interested in the guy that way ― Dean still owned his heart ― but he was just curious. Attractive is as attractive does.

The food was simple but tasty, and the beer was flowing freely. Michael didn't try keep up with the Winchesters' consumption and looked to just have a nice buzz on. Dean was definitely feeling his alcohol, sitting relaxed and loose, and Sam found himself again and again staring at his brother. Dean's guard was down and the jokes and quips were flying, keeping the other two men laughing, and Sam was unable to look away from Dean's bright green eyes and the white teeth flashing in his lush-lipped, laughing mouth. Gradually, Dean quieted down a little as his eyes began roving around the bar, letting Sam and Michael carry more of the conversation. Sam's jaw tensed and his smile faded as he watched Dean walk off with a swagger to the men's room. Michael picked up on the change in mood, looking questioningly at Sam.

"What's up? Is something going down here?" asked Michael quietly.

Sam shook his head. "It's a hunt all right, but not _that_ kind of hunt," he said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "Dean's decided to get laid tonight, so he's looking at the available crop of potential fuckbunnies." He heard Michael snort out some beer. "Dude, I don't think of women that way, but Dean does on occasion, and he's not the only one like that. So, what's up is that he's horny and looking to score." He picked up his beer and thumped it down in annoyance when it turned out to be empty. He looked around and raised his hand for the waitress. "You want another?"

"Uh, no, I think I've had enough. Um, where's he gonna take her, whoever 'her' turns out to be?"

"Back to her place, if she has one. Otherwise, our room. Sometimes it's the Impala." Sam took a good slug of his fresh beer, his mouth tense as it left the bottle. 

"Your room! But ― you'll be there! How ― I mean, what will you do?"

Sam rolled his eyes. The boy meant well, but shit, Sam forgot how young he still was. There was nothing new going on here; Sam had long ago learned to accommodate Dean's active sex life. The one that no longer involved him. "Stay in the bar. Go somewhere else. Sleep in the Impala."

"Damn. I mean, I guess I get it ― just because you hunt together doesn't mean you guys don't wanna get some action sometimes, and you do kinda live on top of each other. It just seems . . . kinda cold for him to kick you out." Michael picked at the label of his mostly empty beer. "You need a place tonight, you can stay with me. I got two beds in my room."

Sam looked at Michael, touched by his consideration. "Thanks, dude, appreciate it. It comes to that, I'll take you up on it." _The further from that room I can be, the better. Like the next state._

Michael shrugged. "Sure. Of course ― no big."

They sat in silence as Dean walked back across the floor, stopping to talk to a girl sitting at a table who was smiling at him. She laughed flirtatiously at his words, her eyes riveted to Dean's as she toyed with a curly tendril of blonde hair. Dean put a hand on the back of her chair, leaning in with a smile and a wink. _And there you go, ladies and gentlemen_ , thought Sam. _Another notch-to-be on the belt of Dean Winchester._

Her name was Dawn, Dean said as he introduced her to Sam and Michael, and she looked thrilled to be hooking up with Dean, if one were to judge by the amount of laughter and flirting going on. Her generous, bra-free tits bounced with every giggle, hard nipples pushing against her thin, tight top. After just a few minutes of watching this, Michael had begged off for the night, heading back to his room but making sure to tell Sam his room number. As unhappy as Sam was about the evening's course of events, he couldn't help smile at Michael's discomfiture at the blatant interplay between Dean and Dawn. It certainly lent some credence to Michael's possibly walking on the rainbow side of the road.

After Michael left, Dean and Dawn moved to the tiny dance floor. Sam watched Dean fixedly, in fact he couldn't make himself stop watching while he danced so smoothly with Dawn, his hips grinding into hers. His head was bent, first to the side of her head (Sam could just imagine the amorous words he was murmuring into her ear in that rich, husky voice) and then to her face as he kissed her. Sam saw her eyes close ― he knew exactly what kind of bliss Dean's kisses generated ― and her hands curled tightly around his larger ones as she gave herself up to the pleasure of his lush mouth. Sam masochistically kept watching, ignoring his aching heart, stinging eyes, and churning gut. His dick chubbed up in his jeans, ignoring Sam's dismay as it reacted to the seductive performance Dean was putting on. The pain was familiar ― he'd seen this play out so many times before, what did one more matter? He knew how the scenario went ― a couple of dances, a couple of drinks, and then the besotted girl leaving with a Dean who was rarin' to go. Off to the motel room, or her place like he'd told Michael, and then off with their clothes.

Sam's breathing grew harsher, but he couldn't stop watching the couple entwined on the dance floor, couldn't stop replaying his mental footage of them naked and wrapped around each other. The girl herself didn't matter, she could be anyone; it was Dean that he was focused on, that pale skin frosted with freckles, and the big, smooth muscles underneath it. He vividly recalled how Dean's legs fit around Sam's waist, how his body felt so hard and strong beneath Sam's larger one, how he growled or moaned as he and Sam rhythmically moved together. But instead of Sam, it was this girl ― petite and curvy, with long hair and make-up who probably squeaked when she came. It wasn't right, it just wasn't right, goddammit. 

He didn't feel his beer glass break under his grip, but the sting of the cuts broke his reverie. Beer spilled across the table and down his left leg, and his left hand held jagged pieces of glass. He dropped them onto the table, shaking his hand, mentally cursing at himself. The waitress came over with a towel, making distressed noises and asking if he needed to go to the emergency room as she mopped up the beer and the blood. Sam shook his head, curtly refusing the ER possibility ― the cuts weren't too bad, nothing he couldn't stitch up himself. He just needed to get out of there as fast as possible. Before Dean noticed any fuss. If he even noticed, that is, seeing that he was pretty well occupied with Dawn over there. Dawn with the big, perky boobs and the round ass and a soft, pink pussy between her legs that Dean could fuck, since he only fucked girls nowadays. No more men, no sirree, no cocks or tight holes for Dean anymore ― just pink, slick folds and round, bouncy tits. Sam couldn't figure out if that was better or worse.

Sam's eyes clouded with tears from the pain in his hand as well as his heart. He choked a thanks to the helpful waitress, throwing some money on her tray as he headed for the door. He had to get out of there before anything else happened. Like ripping that chick out of Dean's arms, away from his lips, and grabbing Dean himself. That wasn't going to happen ― he and Dean were just brothers, and it had been that way for too long. The tears were falling now, salty trickles down his cheeks as hoarse sobs tore from his throat. He half-ran down the street, heading for the motel. He thought about Michael's earlier offer of a bed and decided to take him up it. He didn't want to take the remotest chance of running into Dean and that girl back at their room. Sam couldn't deal with a face-to-face encounter like that right now.

Or ever.

Michael was rather surprised to hear Sam banging on his motel room door at one a.m., but he let him in readily. "Hey ― so, I know it's late but can I take you up on your offer, man? Sack out here?" Sam asked, running a big hand through his disheveled hair. He didn't say anything about the obvious tear tracks on his face, so Michael pretended not to see them.

"Yeah, sure, of course. Mi casa and all, even if it's not really mi casa," Michael tried to answer lightly. Sam apparently didn't notice his effort at amusement, instead alternating between glowering at the floor and gazing fixedly out the window. Michael wondered what had him so upset. He gestured to the other bed and said, "Take a load off." As Sam moved toward the bed, Michael saw the bloody towel wrapped around his hand. "Dude! What happened? Here, sit down and let me take a look at it, okay?"

Sam plopped down on the bed and mumbled, "S'fine. No big. Broke a glass." He sniffed and combed his hair back again. Michael realized how his hair had gotten so disheveled.

"No, seriously, Sam ― I gotta look at it. What if you have some glass still in there? Or you need stitches? C'mon, you don't want to fuck up your hand for good. I'm just grabbing my first aid kit, okay?" He darted in the bathroom and grabbed his kit and a towel. What the fuck is going on here? he wondered. This was not just an average case of drunken blues. This was a strong man deep in some serious emotional pain. What happened at the bar after Michael left?

Settling down next to Sam on the bed, Michael opened the kit and then gently picked up Sam's hand. He unwrapped the towel and hissed as he saw the cuts from the glass. Sam sat still as Michael cleaned his hand and then carefully checked for any remaining glass slivers or shards. He stitched up the two largest cuts, put butterfly strips on a couple more, and then wound gauze around his palm. "There you go. No glass left, and you're all stitched and bandaged. Just keep an eye on it for infection, okay? Although I probably don't need to tell you about wound care," Michael said with a wry laugh.

Sam looked blankly at the bandage wrapped around his hand. "I broke the glass. I was just sitting there holding it and then it broke. I guess I squeezed it too hard." His breath hitched. "I was watching him dance with that girl, and then all I could think about was how he's going to fuck her. He only fucks girls now, you know, and it just ― I just ― I got so mad." He raised his eyes and looked at Michael for the first time, eyelashes wet around red-rimmed eyes. "But I'm not _really_ mad, you know? I just want ― I want it to be the way it was. I want him to want me again. I want to be the one that he's with all the time, like it used to be." 

Tears suddenly rolled down his face, following the lines in his cheeks that Michael knew hid his dimples. His multi-colored eyes glistened as the tears kept welling up and spilling over. "I still love him, but I have to wall it off all the time. Can't let it out anymore, gotta keep it locked away. S'what Dean said he wanted. Sometimes I can't though ― pretending's so hard, jus' wanna let it out. Especially on nights like this when I have to watch him pick up some fuckin' random girl and waltz off into the night. I know what he's doing. I remember how incredible sex is with him. It's never been like that with anyone else, ever." Sam looked at Michael, his mouth loose and chin quivering. "I'm the one who should be in bed with him. Not those stupid girls who don't even know who he really is. Me. I'm the one who loves him."

Michael sat frozen, stunned by Sam's grief-laden outpouring. All that supposition all those years ago, and boom ― here it was. Not some dirty joke, but a man's heart laid out right in front of him. A broken heart. 

He took a split second to remember that these were brothers and this was incest they were talking about. Wasn't this wrong, taboo? Shouldn't he be repulsed? Hadn't Dean done the right thing by ending it? Surely it was better for them to be brothers and nothing more.

Michael admitted to himself that there were big issues involved here that needed further thought. What mattered most at the moment, though, was the man sitting in front of him, awash in pain. Sam and Dean were among the best people he knew, and if being lovers was what they wanted or needed, then it wasn't his place to judge. No one else was hurt by their relationship, no matter how close they'd become. Except right now Sam was hurting big-time, sitting here half drunk out of his mind, face wet with tears he seemed unaware of. What the hell had gone wrong?

"Sam," Michael asked quietly. "Why isn't Dean ― what happened between you two? Why aren't you together anymore?"

Sam whuffled a damp sigh. "Jesus, I don't even know. Dean just came in one day and said we were done. We weren't going to be . . . partners like that anymore. Just brothers and hunters. Then he left for a week. I don't know where he went. I guess he wanted to make a point of it, us being different now. When he came back ― that was how things were afterward." He started unlacing his boots. "Thanks for the first aid and the bed, man. I'm so fuckin' tired." He kicked his boots off and crawled up on the bed. He was snoring within minutes, long limbs slung across the bed.

Michael sat and watched him for a while. He studied the lines and tension on Sam's face, watching it smooth out as he fell into a deeper sleep. Damn, Sam was not that old, but he looked like he carried twenty extra years on him. _Is that going to happen to me?_ Michael wondered. _Is it just being a hunter, or is it whatever happened between them? What made Dean change their dynamic like that? Is it affecting Dean the way it is Sam?_

Finally he got up and performed his nighttime routine, coming back out of the bathroom to slip on some pajama pants and a T-shirt. Sam had turned to the wall and curled up, so Michael left him there but draped a blanket over his big body. He crawled under his own blanket and lay staring at Sam's back before he made himself turn away so he too could sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean woke up feeling that his mouth had turned into a desert, complete with small rodents nesting in the sand. His tongue rasped against his dry lips, leaving them feeling unpleasantly tacky. Running his hand over his face, he felt hair tickling it. He squinted his eyes open and saw a yellow cloud massed in front of his face. After a few bleary blinks, the yellow cloud resolved into long, curly blonde hair. Hair that must belong to the round ass that was currently pushed against his groin. Dean thought he should probably like that the ass was pressing up nice and warm against his morning wood, but at the moment he just wanted to rinse out his mouth, drink some water, and piss.

He slid to the other side of the bed and eased off it slowly, not wanting to wake his slumbering playmate. He crossed to the bathroom and quietly shut the door. First order of business ― pee. _Oh dear Lord_ , he thought as his cock released a hearty stream of urine. _What sweet, sweet relief_. Straining bladder now relieved, he moved onto rinsing his mouth and then slurping some handfuls of water. Happily, his head was not throbbing too badly. Sure, he'd had some drinks, but he hadn't really tied one on.

He brushed his teeth as he tried to figure out who the babe was. They had been at the bar down the street ― they? Oh yeah, him, Sam, and Michael. They had had a few beers and then he'd gotten the vibe from Daisy . . . no, Dana? And they'd danced and had a couple of drinks together, and she'd been eager to come back to his room with him.

Dean spit into the sink before grabbing a washcloth and cleaning his face, then his junk. As he ran the soapy washcloth around his dick and balls, he pondered why he felt so unsatisfied after a night of rousing sex. Oh, _she'd_ had a good time ― Dean always made sure that his partners had nothing to complain about. She'd come once on his tongue, once with his fingers, and finally on his cock. She'd moaned and squealed and panted as he'd pumped into her pussy and suckled her large pink nipples. Oh yeah, she'd had a great time.

It was Dean who felt unsatisfied. It wasn't that he hadn't come, because he had. He'd brought her off the two times before he finally let himself go as he fucked her, spurting a full load of jizz into the condom. His balls had squeezed up nice and tight and his cock had shot hard and really, he should be happy as a pig in a poke right now. Her breasts were large and soft; he'd enjoyed squeezing them and teasing those big nipples, pinching and tugging on them and then sucking them hard as his tongue flicked over them. Oh man, she had loved that, writhing under his lips, her moans spurring him on. He loved tits in general; so round and bouncy, crowned with those delectable little hot buttons. Loved pussy too, seductive rosy folds that got so shiny and slick with mounting excitement, parting to reveal the shy, delicate clit and the deep, hot tunnel awaiting his cock. 

And yet, here he was feeling . . . empty this morning. He should be soundly fucked out ― or ready to go again ― yet all he wanted to do was get her the hell out of the room and forget about her, forget the whole sordid encounter.

Dean sat on the toilet lid, not wanting to go out while in the midst of some existential crisis. He ran his hands over his hair and sat back, staring at the ceiling. He thought about when they laid in bed together afterward, he'd turned her on her side and spooned, not wanting to feel her head on his chest. Didn't want that much contact, that much _intimacy_. He snorted ― they'd just fucked, and he didn't want her head lying on him. How fucked was that? Didn't want to feel her little hands running across his body. Didn't want to share himself with her beyond the raw sex act itself.

Nausea roiled in him when he realized she could have been a fleshlight for all he cared about her. A fuck toy, an interactive blow-up doll. 

He got off the toilet seat and got the lid up just in time to catch his vomit in the bowl, thin and bitter, spurting sluggishly as his system convulsed. He coughed a couple of times, wiped his mouth with some toilet paper, and flushed. He hung onto the edges of the sink as he studied himself in the mirror. Dean was no stranger to one-night-stands, they'd been a staple of his life on the road for years. Now, he was nauseous about it? Did his fucking balls fall off somewhere? Why was he acting like some lovesick fourteen-year-old girl?

Dean brushed his teeth and swallowed some aspirin. Whatever his problem was, it was time to get Darla the hell out of there. He walked into the bedroom and found her already up and dressed, trying to work a comb through her curly tangles. "Hi," she said softly. "Not feelin' so good?"

"No, no, I'm fine. Little aspirin, little coffee, I'll be good to go." She nodded and they stood in silence for several uncomfortable seconds.

"Well, I better be going," she said, picking up her purse. "Um, thanks."

"Yeah, no, um ― thank you. You were great." Dean couldn't tell if he was complimenting her or addressing her like a whore. Where had his finesse gone?

She looked down. Uh-oh, did that mean it was the whore talk? Dean stepped forward ― this was his problem, not hers. She didn't deserve to feel bad about last night or herself. "Listen, I didn't mean ― "

She shook her head as she moved to the door. "No, don't ― it's okay." She gave him a half-smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. "We had a good time, but I get it. I just ― I don't know who it is you really want, I only know it wasn't me. A girl can tell when the guy in bed with her is thinking about someone else." She looked out the window a moment, then turned back to him. "She's a lucky girl, but I'll bet that she doesn't even know it yet, does she? You probably haven't even told her, right?" She shook her head. "Do yourself a favor, Dean ― figure it out, and then go get her. You're a good guy ― you should be happy. Just ― open up a little."

She went out the door and closed it quietly behind her. Dean stood there staring at the door, then at the bed, its rumpled sheets screaming at him. Suddenly he felt sick again, running back to the bathroom only to find he had nothing left to vomit up. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the nausea to pass and his self-respect to return.

# ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @

Michael came out of the bathroom and saw that Sam was still sleeping heavily. He'd had a restless night, tossing and turning, often with little moans and whimpers of distress that tore at Michael's heart. He'd finally tried to wake Sam, patting his arm gingerly ― the man had crazy, killer reflexes after all ― but Sam was under too deep. Finally he had quieted again, lying still and soundless under his covers, and Michael's own rocky sleep had solidified, giving him an unbroken three hours of slumber after the preceding series of catnaps. He felt kinda crusty, but nothing that coffee and breakfast wouldn't help set to rights. A shower had done a good bit to clear his head already.

Throwing on some clothes, he went over to Sam and gently shook his shoulder. Sam's dark brown hair was tumbled wildly around his head, and the plane of the one visible high cheekbone was clean and lovely. His features were strong ― deep brow, large nose, those cheekbones ― but extremely appealing, especially with those fascinating eyes factored in. Michael had seen blue, green, hazel, and flecks of gold in those changing irises. They were hidden now, tucked away in sleep, but easy to recall.

Michael had realized a couple of years ago that he was drawn to men. He could appreciate a pretty girl, but didn't feel any physical desire for one. A man's long limbs, strong features, heavier muscles ― those were what evoked desire in Michael. He hadn't done much about it so far; necking and handjobs as he found opportunity for in his travels, hooking up with random men in bars. He'd held off from doing anything more involved, knowing it meant more than just a quick fuck in a back alley or dark hallway. Wanting it to mean more.

After no response, he shook Sam harder, prepared to jump away in case he swung as he awoke. There was still no response, so Michael placed a water bottle next to the bed with a note saying he was at the diner for breakfast.

Michael enjoyed the short walk to the diner ― it was sunny and the sky was deep blue, the air still cool. He nodded a greeting to the waitress and slid into a booth. Hetty came around with fresh, fragrant coffee, and he quickly ordered breakfast, as well as a Danish to start on while the food cooked. The Danish was fresh and sweet, and Michael savored the crumbly pastry as he sipped his coffee.

As he licked the sticky residue from the Danish off his fingers, his thoughts again turned to the Winchesters. What is going on, he wondered. Clearly, based on Sam's drunken confession last night, they had been together in every sense of the word, social taboos be damned. And it was just as plain that now they were not. Something had happened between them, and Michael bet that it had something to do with that week apart that they hadn't elaborated on. And now Dean was picking up random women while Sam was getting his drunk on and breaking beer glasses with his bare hands? This was fucked up for sure.

Just as his food arrived, the diner's entry bell tinkled and Dean came in. His hair was still damp, so at least he'd showered after his one night stand. Michael was conflicted ― he really liked Dean, but he also felt very bad for Sam. _Stop it_ , he told himself. _You don't know the whole story yet. Don't go picking sides here, especially because you're attracted to one of them_. He raised his hand to catch Dean's eye, and Dean nodded and came over. "Mind if I. . . ?" he said. Michael, his mouth full, nodded and gestured with his fork for Dean to sit. The waitress appeared with coffee in hand and took Dean's order. "Hey, go ahead, your food's hot. Mine will just be a minute," Dean said, when Michael put his silverware down.

"Thanks, starved this morning!" Michael answered. "The food is awesome here, too. Everything's so good!"

Dean laughed. "Doesn't hurt you're what, twenty-one? Twenty-two? Barely out of your last growth spurt. I remember Sammy ate like a friggin' horse for what musta been three years!" He smiled widely, showing engaging crinkles at the corner of his eyes.

Michael choked on a forkful of egg at a fresh realization of how intimate Dean's knowledge of "Sammy" really was. He swallowed some coffee to wash it down and regain his composure.

Dean looked at him rather quizzically. "You okay there, sport? Wrong pipe?" Michael nodded, sipping some water. He didn't trust himself to speak at the moment. Dean went on to ask, "Hey, do you know where Sam is? He, uh, didn't come home last night, and I don't think it was because he got lucky. He was drinking pretty heavy at the bar after you left and then he just disappeared." Dean's order arrived, and he dug in with a good appetite. He glanced back up at Michael, looking for an answer.

"Um, yeah, as a matter of fact he slept in my room," Michael said, struggling to sound casual while feeling caught between the brothers' issues. "We saw you, um, flirting with that blonde girl, and I told Sam that he was welcome to crash with me if you . . . if you hooked up with her. He showed up at my room around one, pretty blitzed too." He left out the cut hand and heartbroken ramblings. "He was still sleeping when I got up this morning, so I left him a note and headed over here."

Dean's enthusiastic eating slowed during Michael's words, until he was simply using his fork to toy with his food. His eyes were downcast and his mouth drawn to a line. Michael couldn't tell if he was upset or just felt bad. He wanted to know, but he didn't want to ask.

"He was drunk, huh?" Dean shook his head. "He doesn't get drunk often. Either we're celebrating a big win or he's looking to numb himself. That werewolf kill was a good win, but not enough to send him into a bottle, so it must be anaesthesia time for him." He poked some more at his food, finally beginning to eat again. His eyes didn't meet Michael's, either staying fixed on his plate or looking around the diner. The simple enjoyment of his breakfast had vanished from his face, leaving it hollow.

Michael pushed his plate away, signaling for a coffee refill. After the waitress topped him off, he focused on Dean, watching him over the steaming cup. He was nervous about delving deeper into this, but Sam and Dean looked to be all snarled up, stalled out in a tense and uncomfortable position. "Dean, if I cross a line here, tell me and I'll shut up, okay?" Dean's eyes flicked to his and flicked away, followed by the briefest of nods. "You guys seem . . . unhappy. At least, Sam is unhappy, _real_ unhappy. You're off picking up easy pussy, so I don't really know how you feel about it. I can say that for a guy who got laid last night, you don't seem too chipper this morning. I'm going to take that to mean things aren't good for you either." He paused to get Dean's reaction.

Dean had stopped eating completely by now, knotted jaw muscles belying his tension. His fingers were absently folding and shredding his paper napkin, and his knee under the table was jittering ― Michael could feel the vibrations. "Go on," he said tersely.

"Okay, so last night when Sam came to my room ― he wasn't just drunk, Dean. He was heartbroken. Like, with full-out, snotty sobbing. Like his world had crashed. And there was the glass ― "

"Glass? _What_ glass?" Now Dean was looking hard at him, hands and knee still.

"The beer glass he broke with his hand while he watched you and that girl dancing. He didn't even realize it at first, it was the barmaid who came over when she saw him bleeding. Don't worry, I checked the cuts for any leftover glass slivers and bandaged it up." He paused, watching Dean's jaw muscles twitching while he stared angrily off into space again. "I can't help thinking ― who does that, man? Who gets so upset they bust a glass and don't even feel it? Because it's your brother, dude. That's who does it. And that's a guy in serious distress. That's a guy who's pushed too far."

Dean abruptly slid out of the booth, startling Michael. He thought he'd angered Dean too much, that he was leaving, but Dean turned to him and said, "Let's get out of here. This one's on me." He threw money onto the table and strode to the door. Michael waved to Hetty as he followed.

They walked for several minutes, Michael curious about their goal but staying quiet while they walked. They were past the motel a bit when they came to some picnic tables in a rest area off the side of the road. Dean swung a leg over a bench and gestured to Michael to join him. "Got an idea where this might go, and I'd rather not have this discussion in public. Don't know where Sammy is right now, so let's take advantage of the privacy of the great outdoors." He waited until Michael was seated, then growled, "Go on now."

Michael clasped his hands, studying them. How did one casually discuss consensual incest? He sighed. "Sam told me, Dean. He didn't go into any detail, and he didn't say what changed things, but he told me that you and he ― that you two . . . used to be lovers. And it was clear from his behavior that he's still in love with you. Watching you pick up that girl was torture for him. I think the realization that you were going to fuck her drove him a little crazy. When I was bandaging him up, all he could talk about was how it should have been him with you, not her. That he was the one who knew you and loved you."

Dean cursed softly, looking out over the landscape. He rubbed his hand over his mouth. "So, what's all this make you think? Think we're perverts? Wonder what makes brothers turn to each other like that? 'Cause that's what most people would think. Can't say as I'd blame you."

Michael shook his head. "Sure, I was shocked. And I did wonder about it. But you two are goddamn heroes, Dean, and you live a life most people could never conceive of or endure. How do you find someone, living this life? Some do, but it's rare. You two aren't hurting anyone. You aren't going to have kids together. Who the hell am I to tell you how to live, who to love? Judgment day comes, it'll just be between you and God. I got no say about it at all."

Dean nodded, kicking at the scruffy grass. He cleared his throat, opened his mouth, had to clear his throat again. "Thanks, Michael. Appreciate it." He squinted at Michael, "Not everyone would be so fair. So, yeah . . . thanks. And thanks for patching up Sam."

"Sure, of course. No problem. Just ― I'm gonna ask, but 'sup to you if you want to answer. What happened to you two, Dean? If you two managed to find your way to each other in the first place, what went wrong? What's with all the hook-ups, and why is Sam sleeping in my room, heartbroken?"

Dean pulled his leg out from under the picnic table and stood up, looking away from Michael. "It's my fault. The whole damn thing is my fault. I started it and I ended it, and now my brother's paying the price." He turned back toward the way they'd come and started walking. "Let's head back and check on Sasquatch."

Michael got up and followed him. It was clear the conversation was over for now.

# ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @

Sam hadn't even opened his eyes when the headache slammed into his skull. _What the fuck_ , he thought groggily. _What fuckin' tree fell on me?_ He slitted his eyes open, feeling momentarily confused at the sight of a strange motel room. Strange, and yet . . . familiar. Recognition spread slowly through his throbbing brain ― he was still in the same motel, just in a different room. _Michael's_ room. The memory of last night ― complete with him spilling his guts to the younger man ― washed over him. He groaned, feeling both embarrassed and pathetic. Plus, he'd spilled the Big Secret about Dean and him. Jesus, what an ass he was. He looked around the empty room, wondering where Michael was and if he was still talking to Sam. Maybe he was so repulsed by the Winchesters' perversion that he'd checked out.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Sam propped himself up and held onto the bed as he waited for the room to stop swaying. When he opened his eyes this time, they fell on the rumpled sheets of the other bed, with Michael's duffel bag sitting on top. Okay, so he was still around. Sam's torrid tale of incest hadn't driven him off after all. Good to know.

He dragged himself to the bathroom, taking a quick shower and using his finger to scrub toothpaste around in his mouth, which felt like some fetid algae was coating it. He debated borrowing a pair of clean boxers, but shrank from pawing through Michael's things. Instead, he went commando and just wore his plaid button down, balling his boxers and T-shirt up to add to the laundry in his own room. His head still ached, but it was more tolerable after the shower and the big glass of water he drained.

The bandage on his hand had caught his attention in the shower, and now he puzzled over it. He removed the gauze and whistled as he saw the cuts, some with tidy sutures and some with butterfly bandages, not remembering yet how it happened. He left it unwrapped to dry out ― he could re-wrap it back at his room. Sam planned to drop his clothes off, throw some boxers on ― denim was too uncomfortable to be commando in for very long ― and hit the diner for coffee and food. And then more coffee. And maybe they'd have some aspirin.

Outside his own motel room with his hand poised to turn the doorknob, Sam froze at a flash of memory. There'd been a girl last night. Dean and his irresistible charm had hooked a live one. Hence Sam's appearance at Michael's door ― he dimly remembered Michael offering crash space. The question was, what if she and Dean still inside? Immediately, scenes of Dean and the blond girl played before Sam's eyes. Naked and rolling around on the bed, laughing and moaning as they touched each other, kissing passionately. The girl lying back as Dean rolled on top of her, his strong, capable hands spreading her thighs wide as he fucked hard into her cunt. Considering how intimately Sam knew his brother's body, it was all easy enough to visualize.

Between his hunger, his headache, and now his mind's eye unspooling Dean's enthusiastic sexcapade, Sam felt a wave of nausea roll through him. He pulled his hand back from the knob ― no way was he going in there. He wasn't taking the chance they were still inside. He wasn't even knocking to find out. He walked over to the Impala, whose presence pretty much confirmed Dean's location, and tossed his clothes into it instead. Sam didn't feel like eating anymore, but he grimly marched over to the diner anyway. Coffee was crucial, and food would settle his stomach, and by then Dean would probably be . . . done.

As Sam entered the diner, a thought drilled into his head and resonated throughout his body. _Jesus . . . I don't know how much longer I can do this._ It wasn't a thought he'd allowed himself to think before. It scared him.

# ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @

Unbeknownst to them, Dean and Michael entered the Winchesters' motel room just as Sam's breakfast was being served to him in the diner. Dean crossed over to the laptop on the little table, sitting down to check his email as he ignored the mess around him. Michael entered more slowly, appalled at the room's condition. One bed was still neatly made while the other looked like a tornado had hit it. Sheets draped off the mattress onto the floor, and one pillow was hanging off the foot of the bed. Clothes were strewn wildly about, and a mostly empty bottle of Jack sat in a puddle on the nightstand. The smell of sex, alcohol, and perfume hung in the air like a sickly mist. Michael coughed, both from the smell and in acute embarrassment. If the room's state and aroma didn't make it clear what happened there last night, the knotted condom lying next to the trash can sure did.

"Jesus, Dean . . . think you might wanna clean up a little here before Sam gets back? I feel like I just got laid in here." Michael went over to the window and cranked it open. "Looks ― and _smells_ ― like you had a freakin' gangbang."

Dean looked up from the computer, scanning the room. "Oh, uh, yeah ― guess that might be a good idea." He got up and threw the pillow onto the bed, then bent down to pick up the condom. "Heh, guess my aim's not so great after the third round." He winked at Michael as he tossed it into the wastebasket.

Michael opened the door for more fresh air before turning to Dean angrily. The man's flip attitude pissed him off, after he'd watched Sam suffer all night. "Seriously? _Seriously?_ Sam's a fucking basket case over you, and you gotta smack him in the face by kicking him out of your _shared_ room so you can get your rocks off? _Then_ you leave the sordid evidence all over for him to see? Dean, you are a terrific hunter, but right now you're sucking big time as a decent human being. Much less someone who supposedly gives a rat's ass about Sam. How's he gonna feel walking into this mess? I mean, _really_ ― you couldn't get the goddamn _condom_ into the _trash?_ "

Dean's face was angry, jaw thrust out and brows drawn down. "Fuck you, Michael! You don't have a stake in this! You got no right to judge here!" He started grabbing the sheets and throwing them back onto the bed. He snapped the top sheet as he unfurled it over the mattress. He scooped the clothes up and dumped them into a pile next to the duffels in the closet. "There! Satisfied? You happy now? Now fuck off and leave me alone! You don't know _anything_ about me!" Dean strode to the door and went right on out, slamming it behind him.

The force of Dean's anger left Michael breathless. He dragged the chair over and sat down heavily. Had he really interfered too much? He shook his head. How could having the common decency to clean up after a night of debauchery be interfering? And maybe standing up for Sam might be, but goddamn ― Dean was crossing the line from thoughtless to cruel here. He shook his head again, running his hands through his hair. No, Dean wasn't mad about cleaning up the room or Michael's comments. He was mad because he knew he was wrong. Because that wasn't how you treat the person you love, and Dean knew it. Hunters lived a rough and tumble life, but they weren't unfeeling or stupid. Dean had been called on his shitty behavior and he was bluffing angrily as a defense.

Maybe his getting angry was a step toward breaking the logjam between the brothers, letting them dissect what was wrong with their relationship. Maybe they could purge the toxic emotions between them and heal clean. Maybe Michael could help.

As long as he didn't get too involved. Because as long as he was being all insightful here, sitting alone in Sam and Dean's motel room, he might as well admit that Sam was tremendously attractive, what with his sensitivity, his intellect, his compassion. And the man was stone cold beautiful to boot.

Michael was going to have to tread very carefully so that he didn't get hurt here. Very, very carefully.

# ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @

Dean angrily walked over to the diner, just barely catching himself from throwing the door open against the wall as he went in. Immediately he saw Sam, who was just finishing his meal. Sam's head turned to the door and his eyes widened as he saw Dean standing tensely at the doorway. They stared at each other, frozen for a moment. The stasis was broken as the waitress came over to offer Dean a menu and a seat. "Thanks, sweetheart, I changed my mind. I've lost my appetite," Dean snarled, turning on his heel and marching out.

He stomped to the Impala and got in, refraining from slamming his baby's door despite his anger. Seeing Sam had just aggravated his bad temper. He gunned the car as he took off onto the road heading out of town. Fuck them both! Fuck nosy, pushy Michael, who thought he knew everything! Fuck Sam, sitting there staring at him with those pleading puppy eyes! The boy just didn't _get_ it! Dean had broken it off for his own good, not because Dean wanted to! It wasn't that Dean didn't love him ― sonofabitch, there was _no one_ Dean loved more on this fucking planet than his brother!

The road unspooled beneath the Impala's tires as Dean cruised, his brain continually looping that pivotal, agonizing moment where he'd sundered his relationship with Sam, ruthlessly breaking both their hearts. He'd struggled with the brother issue before they'd started making love, but Sam's questing hands at night and his handsome, yearning face during the day had finally eroded what flimsy resistance Dean had. He'd succumbed to their mutual desire and become Sam's lover, ultimately unable to disguise his joy at being with Sammy in every possible way. They'd hunted and laughed and bled and loved, and it had been more than Dean had ever hoped for. Sam was everything precious, a reservoir of warmth and strength, the reason for Dean's happiness. They'd fought and argued and bitched at each other as they always had ― two grown men living in each other's pocket were going to butt heads ― but underneath was always that strong current of love, that mutual respect leavened with shared humor and enriched with the best sex Dean had ever experienced.

And then he'd been sent to the past, not just once but twice; he'd seen how the love between his parents had been used and twisted, how they'd been played by powers greater than themselves. He'd witnessed the futility of trying to changing the future; watched helplessly as the irreversible events played themselves out. And when he'd returned to the present, he'd looked at Sam, his lodestone Sammy, and he'd decided that it wasn't going to happen to _them_. They weren't going to be the playthings of angels and demons anymore. They couldn't stop being brothers, but they _could_ stop being lovers and thus take an arrow out of the hands of their enemies. Like performing surgery, they could sever that connection and make themselves less vulnerable. At all costs, he must watch out for his brother and protect him.

Except Sam hadn't taken it well. At all. He couldn't understand why or how urgently Dean felt this was necessary. Still the stubbornest person Dean had ever met, Sam argued and railed against Dean's decision. They'd fought hard and loud, Sam railing at Dean not to do it and Dean stating the need over and over again. Sam had cried in the end, tears cascading down his face, leaving his eyes red and swollen, his nose running unheeded. Dean had cried too, but only when Sam couldn't see him, muffling his sobs in the shower or stifling them in his pillow.

After a few days of this agony, Dean simply left. They could not bear this struggle any longer. He couldn't bear it any longer. He thought a short separation would help cauterize the bleeding wound that their life together had become. 

He didn't explain. He didn't say anything to Sam at all. He just drove away.

Tears started snaking down Dean's cheeks as he remembered that horrible time. He might as well have taken an axe to his foot as separate himself from Sammy like that. The first three days he'd spent in a bottle, half-hoping he'd die of alcohol poisoning. He didn't call Sam, didn't text him, nothing.

Sam didn't call or text him either. Dean figured that meant he understood. Finally.

It just _hurt_ so fucking bad. Worse than the werewolf claws down Dean's right side. Worse than the third time his left shoulder got dislocated, or the blow to his balls in that Arizona bar where he'd been trying to pick up that biker's girlfriend. Dean remembered barely being able to breathe during that week for the pain of amputating Sammy from his life. He lay half in a coma in a trashy motel room, surrounded by beer cans, whiskey bottles, and fast food wrappers.

After the longest week of his life, Dean picked himself up, cleaned himself off, and returned to the motel where he'd left Sam. Sam greeted him quietly, not even getting up from his laptop. He didn't ask Dean anything about the past week, including where he'd been. They ate silently as Sam looked for a case on the laptop, they slept in separate beds with their backs to each other, and the next morning they got in the Impala and resumed hunting. They never spoke of it again.

Strong, silent, and stoic was the Winchester motto. Never mind how dysfunctional it was. Suck it up and move on.

It really had never stopped hurting. Oh, Dean had learned to carry it, hide it, stash the worst of it away. By the time he and Sammy could finally joke around again, it was better. Tolerable. They hunted, as slick a team as ever, always watching each other's backs, knowing the other's reflexes. Roamed the country, making snarky remarks about the crappy, bizarre motel rooms, Sam mocking Dean's food, Dean mocking Sam's gas. They'd collected the Horsemen's rings and opened the cage, tumbling Lucifer into it while he was still in poor, doomed Nick's body, thwarting the end game between Heaven and Hell as well as Lucifer's desire to wear Sam. When that was all over, they rested a couple of weeks at Bobby's before hitting the road again.

Getting drunk helped, cushioning the constant ache. Getting laid took him out of himself for a little while, removed him from the pain. He ignored the hurt on Sam's face every time he picked up a girl, pretended he just didn't see it, it wasn't there. It worked . . . mostly.

Until last night. The pick-up that ended with Dean's self-loathing at a level so high he literally made himself sick. Dean clutched Baby's wheel as he recalled the sex with ― what was her name, he had to remember it. He pounded the steering wheel as he thought; he refused to be such a pig that he couldn't remember the name of the girl he'd slept with. Darla, Dana, began with a D ― Dawn! It was ridiculous that remembering her name should be such a relief, but it was. Dawn. He felt a little sick again at his blasé treatment of her, thinking of her final words to him. There was a line fast approaching that he really didn't want to cross, a person he didn't want to become.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam sat in the diner, shocked at Dean's appearance and his rapid departure. Dean's anger ― what the hell was that all about? He really couldn't think of anything he'd done to provoke that. Although, maybe it wasn't even him? Sam tossed money onto the table and hastened from the diner, wanting to find Michael and see what he knew about Dean's state of mind.

He went back to the motel room he was sharing with Dean first. Sam was surprised to find Michael inside, sitting on the chair and looking blank. He registered Sam's arrival with a half-hearted wave. "Did you see Hurricane Dean?" he asked casually.

"Yeah, he came into the diner for a minute. He looked pissed when he walked in and then he just turned around and left. What the hell was that all about? If looks could kill, I think the place would be full of corpses." Sam sat on the foot of his bed, still neatly made as he hadn't slept there. He looked around, finding the room surprisingly tidy after a night of shenanigans between Dean and his chick du jour. Dean's bed was mostly made, the dirty clothes were all in the closet, and the air smelled suspiciously fresh. Sam sighed.

"Let me guess. The room was a disaster and you made him clean it up."

Michael laughed. "That's amazing! How did you ― ? I didn't want you to see . . . well, it was gross."

Sam snorted. "Dude, I have walked into that room so many times. Thanks for sparing me this one. Dean ― he doesn't like facing the next morning, you know?" He gave Michael a resigned look.

"It was gross," Michael repeated, more vehemently this time. "No one should have to deal with that who didn't create it. And it was disrespectful. You're his . . . brother. This is your space too." 

Sam silently admired how delicately Michael sidestepped the Winchester relationship issue. Michael showed an understanding deeper than his years might indicate. Probably it was losing Asher so suddenly and violently ― death had a way of hastening maturity.

"Well, he's off for a drive for now, so hopefully he'll come back in a better mood. We were taking a couple of days off, but maybe it's time to start looking for a new hunt. What's your plan?"

He watched Michael stare out the window for a few minutes, the sun streaming in and painting his dark blond hair with gold and honey highlights. It was long enough to just brush his collar, but not as long as Sam's. As if he felt Sam's eyes on him, Michael turned to face Sam and smiled with that wide, flexible mouth. "Can I ride along with you guys for a bit? I never hunted with anyone else before."

Sam was startled by his request. He would have thought Michael had had enough of the Winchesters and their baggage. "Sure, it's okay with me. Gotta talk about it with Dean, we're a team. But I'm good with it." He felt unduly pleased at the thought of Michael's company for a while; the undemanding, pleasant company of a thoughtful person. A very attractive person. He decided not to examine that feeling too closely.

# ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @

When Dean returned a few hours later, he felt quieter and a little more relaxed. The drive and the time with his baby had bled off the worst of his temper. He still felt kind of sick about last night, but he didn't feel the anger that had led him to lash out at Michael and scorn Sam. He entered the Winchesters' room and found Sam and Michael playing cards as they laughed at _The Princess Bride_ playing on the TV. "Hey," said Sam, looking at him levelly. "Good day for a drive?" He flipped a couple of battered Bicycle cards toward Michael.

"Yeah, real good day," answered Dean, plopping onto a bed. "How you guys doing?"

"Quiet day here," said Michael, picking up the cards and arranging them in his hand. "Just hanging out, watching some TV, playing some cards, makin' sure we picked all the shrapnel out of ourselves from earlier." He looked up at Dean with heavy-lidded eyes. "Ya know?"

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, yeah ― I know. Guys, I ― "

"Gin!" called out Sam, slapping his cards onto the table triumphantly. "Eat _that_ , ya dirty punk!" He laughed as he slapped Michael's shoulder.

"Dammit! That's the sixth time! How the hell do you _do_ it?" Michael threw his hand onto the table, cards skittering carelessly. "Dude, you're a sick, card-cheatin' bastard. You suck."

"Not on the first date," Sam said primly. Dean's head swung toward his younger brother in surprise. Sam didn't often use suggestive humor like that, preferring to leave it to Dean. Michael simply laughed ― of course he had no idea. Dean wondered what prompted Sam's remark. Did he . . . was he attracted to Michael?

"Hey, so let's go hit the bar and grab some dinner and beers," he said with a hearty joviality he hoped would distract them. He stood up, ready to get out of this room that suddenly felt too small for the three of them.

The other two men didn't say a word, simply surveying him from their seats.

"What?"

Sam and Michael exchanged a look that made Dean uncomfortable. Were they _bonding?_ "What's up, guys? Not hungry?"

"Oh, I think we're hungry, and beers sound great. I think we just ― Dean, we just don't want to go through last night again. At least, not tonight. Dig?" Sam's face was impassive as he spoke.

Dean felt heat flare throughout his body as the embarrassment of being called out for his bad behavior surged through him. "Yeah, yeah, of course. Absolutely. Not a problem." He cleared his throat. "Uh, sorry for putting everyone out and all. Tonight's my treat as, uh, as an apology, okay? And no ― no chicks, hand to God. So ― you ready to go?"

"Sure thing!" You bet!" came from the other two, standing up to find their boots and get them on. Dean felt his insides relax a little more. Apparently he was getting a mulligan for last night, and he appreciated it.

Dinner was surprisingly relaxed, everyone apparently ready to leave the tensions behind. They talked and drank as they laughed and traded stories. The only people who could appreciate a hunter's life were other hunters. 

Dean found, however, that he was watching Sam and Michael interact. Only a couple of days had gone by, and here they were constantly catching each other's eye, trading quips and little jokes. Sam's eyes were lingering on Michael's mouth, and Michael was stealing glances at Sam every chance he got. Dean suddenly realized that Sam was flirting. _Flirting._

He pushed his chair out abruptly, startling the other two with the loud screech. "Sorry! Gotta go ― uh, gotta go to the men's room," and he hurried away.

Inside the men's room, he ran cold water over his hands and splashed it on his face. Son of a bitch. Sammy was flirting with _Michael_. Dean was well aware that he flirted as easily as he breathed, but Sam was the opposite. If he was flirting, then he was attracted. Big time attracted. Dean dried his face off and studied himself in the mirror. He knew he had no leg to stand on here. He'd fucked and whored his way across the country, chasing his own brief escapes while turning a blind eye to how hurtful it was to his brother. Sam had every fucking right to be with someone. In fact, it was astounding that it hadn't happened sooner, considering what a handsome devil Sam was. He'd had plenty of opportunities and offers, but had always refused them.

Apparently, he wasn't refusing anymore. And Dean was going to have to suck it up and give his brother the space he needed to explore this, let him see if it was going to work out for him. It was the least Dean could do, after all the pain he'd caused Sam. If it hurt like a motherfucking bitch, well ― that was Dean's penance.

# ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @

The next day, Dean announced that he'd found a garage willing to let him work on the Impala, and would be gone most of the day. He'd been somewhat uncharacteristically quiet the night before and at breakfast, but he seemed pleased about spending some quality time with his baby. He whistled as he changed into oil-stained jeans and made sure he had all his tools. "Have fun, you two crazy kids. See you for dinner," he said with a smirk, winking as he strode out the door.

Sam and Michael looked at each other in puzzlement. "What was _that_ all about?" asked Sam. 

Michael shrugged and replied, "Dude, he's your brother! You tell me!"

They decided to go for a drive in Michael's truck, and then watch some movies in the afternoon. Burwell was near a reservoir, so they drove around it, stopping occasionally to walk along the water. They enjoyed just driving around with no agenda; endless hours spent on the road with urgent deadlines left the constant feeling of racing the clock. This was leisurely rambling, enjoying the scenery and the company. Sam felt like he laughed more than he had in months. It was . . . freeing to be with someone he didn't have to watch every word with, didn't have to guard his tongue and his actions. Michael had a great sense of humor, but also had a deep appreciation for life and the simple things. He wasn't the complete intellectual that Sam was, but he enjoyed reading, so they talked about books among other wide-spread topics. They stopped at a taco stand for lunch, sitting outside and enjoying the sunny weather.

On the way back to the motel, they stopped at a Red Box outside a drugstore and picked out some movies. Sam picked _No Country for Old Men_ and _Iron Man_ , while Michael chose _The Fast and the Furious_ and _The Hangover_. They went into the drugstore for some snacks, because, as they agreed, how can movies be watched without snacks? As they were going down an aisle heading for the cooler for cold drinks, Michael poked Sam and snickered. "Hey, man, you got plans for me later? You know you gotta do better than a movie and some candy before I put out, right?" He winked.

Sam tilted his head in confusion, "What? What are you ― ?" His eyes tracked down the shelves, and he realized that he was standing in front of a large condom section, with an assortment of various types of lube next to it. His eyes widened in shock. "Oh! Oh my God, no ― Michael, that's not what I meant at all! Oh, man ― " He could feel the pink burning in his cheeks at Michael's insinuation.

Michael laughed and clapped Sam on the shoulder. "Hey, I kid, I kid! I just couldn't resist when I saw what was displayed here." He shook the hair out of his eyes, still chuckling. "Oh God, your face was priceless!" He threw his arms around Sam and gave him a brief hug, stepping back as soon as he released him.

Sam had to regain his composure both from Michael's teasing and the unexpected hug. That lean body against his, strong arms encircling him ― holy shit, it felt so good. And Michel smelled good too ― clean, a hint of leather, something like grass out in the sun. Sam had understood on an intellectual level what he'd been missing for years, but apparently not on a physical one, judging by the ache that hug stirred up. He took a deep breath to calm down and started to walk past Michael. The younger man caught his arm, suddenly serious. "Although, Sam? I wouldn't say no." He released Sam's arm and walked to the back of the store, leaving Sam standing there in bemusement.

Sam exited the drugstore with a new awareness of Michael's proximity. Their arms brushed as the walked, and the contact made Sam's head buzzy. It was a quiet ride back to the motel, with only the radio to break the silence.

Unlocking his room, Sam and Michael entered and began unloading their bags. Snacks were piled on the table, drinks stashed in the dinged-up mini fridge, and the movies were tossed onto Sam's bed. "You pick first," Sam said to Michael, hoping that he was hiding his nervousness sufficiently. The whole afternoon was feeling very date-like now, and he didn't quite know how he felt about that. Or what to do about it.

"Are you sure?" Michael asked, sitting on the bed and looking up at Sam. "You can pick first if you want."

"Nah, you go ahead." Sam unlaced his boots and sat against the headboard with his legs crossed. Michael looked them over, picked up The Fast and the Furious and went over to the TV, popping it into the DVD player bolted to the TV stand. He turned to sit on the chair, but then bypassed it and returned to Sam's bed.

"Can I stretch out here with you?" Dark brown eyes, as rich as liquid chocolate, looked at him questioningly as Michael's fingers idly stroked the thin chenille bedcover.

Sam nodded hesitantly. He couldn't tell Michael to go sit on Dean's bed ― that would be even more awkward. Besides, he didn't mind having Michael closer; it was confusing, but not bad. Michael sat on the bed and scooted up against the headboard, shoulder to shoulder with Sam, stretching his legs out and wiggling his toes. Only a couple of inches separated the two men, near enough that Sam could smell Michael's scent again. It was such a good smell; it seeped all the way down Sam, throughout his entire body and limbs. He could feel the hint of warmth from the other man's body running lengthwise down his own, easing and relaxing his muscles and his mind alike.

The movie passed in front of Sam's eyes without his brain really registering it. Much more vivid to him was Michael's body next to his, and Sam's growing urge to touch him. He could simply stretch out his fingers, the other man's body was so close. Fortunately, he'd seen this movie a number of times and could mumble appropriate responses to Michael's comments, resolutely refraining from looking into his eyes again in order to keep himself under control.

"Sam? Sam?" Sam suddenly realized that Michael was calling his name. "Hey, dude, you napping? It's your turn to pick." Michael was still sitting on the bed, but his head was turned toward Sam, his eyes looking intently at Sam's. "You okay there?"

Sam shook his head. He wasn't okay. Or maybe he was. He couldn't really tell right now. There was a humming sound inside his skull, and little electrical tingles in his fingers. He raised his hands to look at them, wondering if the tingles were visible, and found them moving toward Michael, who sat very, very still. He cupped his hands around Michael's face, stroking the soft, smooth skin under his fingertips, before gently pulling Michael's face close to his. He saw Michael's eyes opening very wide before Sam's lips closed on his, pressing gently and then more firmly. He heard a soft, pleading noise, almost a whimper, and only as his mouth opened on Michael's did he realize it came from him.

So sweet, good God, Michael's mouth was so very sweet and wet and hot, his tongue sliding against and twisting with Sam's as their mouths moved together. Michael was as invested in the kiss as Sam, one hand clutching Sam's shoulder, the other slid deep into Sam's hair, holding him close. Jesus, Sam hadn't kissed anyone, held anyone, made love with anyone in eons ― Michael's touch, his kisses were euphoric as a drug. Sam grabbed him, a sudden rush of heat under his skin making him want more, need more. Now, right _now_ , oh please please now. _Now._

# ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @

Michael whimpered as Sam's big hands cradled his face, fingertips tracing his cheekbones. He was so gentle for such a big man; mouth and body asking before they took, never overpowering him as he could do so easily. Michael gave himself up to the kiss. He hadn't thought anything would happen; it was pretty clear that Sam was still very hung up on Dean, and God knows they had baggage. Michael didn't need or want to manipulate Sam ― he'd be happy just to be friends with the man. But Sam had gone for it, and Michael was going to go as far as Sam wanted. He knew he might get hurt. He'd also learned in his life as a hunter that pain was not always the factor to be most feared. Sam was worth the risk.

They broke apart, panting as they looked into each other's eyes. Sam didn't move at all so Michael took the initiative this time, sliding down on the bed to lie flat on his back, tugging on Sam's arm. Sam followed, sliding onto one side, propped up on an elbow next to Michael, looking down at him. "Are you ― Michael, is this what you really want?" Sam asked huskily, his other hand resting lightly on Michael's stomach, fingers spread across his abs. "I don't wanna push you, and I'm not even sure where I'm at myself. I can't promise anything right now, you know? So if you wanna stop here, it's fine. Not gonna hold it against you, Just tell me what you want, because I'm barely holding back here."

Michael studied Sam's face ― those blue, green, and brown eyes, those high, sculpted cheekbones, the soft, pink mouth. "I know. I get it ― you and Dean. I know you guys have some . . . issues. But you're amazing and funny and special, and if I have a chance to be with you, I'm gonna take it. We'll work it out as it goes." He wound one arm around Sam's neck and slid the other onto Sam's ass and pulled him close. "In the meantime, Winchester, get down here and kiss me."

Sam did more than that ― he rolled on top of Michael, spreading Michael's legs with his thighs, using his elbows to help support his weight. They kissed with rising fervor, kisses that got sloppy as they constantly sucked and licked against each other. Michael's head reeled with his intense arousal, Sam's body spreading heat across his with every movement. Sam was all muscle, deep curves and long swathes of it under tan skin that Michael was dying to taste. He gripped Sam's ass with both hands, kneading the firm cheeks as his hips rocked up into Sam's. Little moans and grunts from both men filled the air as they pushed their denim-covered dicks harder and harder against each other. Michael thought his jeans were going to explode from the pressure of his own erection as well as Sam's hard-on grinding against him. They rutted together, completely wrapped up in each other and the blissful sensations they were experiencing.

"Wait," Sam gasped, pulling off Michael, who whined with the sudden loss. "Wait, I gotta ― 'm gonna ― and he unsnapped Michael's jeans, wrestling with the zipper until he got it down. He stuck his hand inside Michael's jeans, pushing down his boxers, and pulled his cock out, hard and red in his fist. Michael's hips jerked in reaction to Sam's manhandling, and he clawed at Sam's jeans, greedy to feel Sam's cock as well. After a few minutes of fumbling, he got Sam's jeans open and his dick out. _Jesus_ , thought Michael, _he's huge_. His thoughts about Sam's size dissipated with the amazing feeling of Sam's callused hands slowly jerking his cock, and he squeezed back in kind. He circled his palm over the head of Sam's dick, thrilling to his keen of pleasure as Michael used his pre-come to slick his strokes. Sam was so hard and hot in his hand, and Sam's hand felt delicious wrapped around Michael's own cock. Michael groaned as he sought Sam's mouth anew while they both pushed their hips together again, this time to rub their naked dicks against each other.

Michael never heard the door opening, but Sam must have because suddenly he froze, still clutching Michael's desperate cock. Michael opened his eyes in confusion and saw Sam's head turned to the side, eyes fixed and mouth open. He followed Sam's stare and saw Dean standing there, his face blank, eyes round. His T-shirt and jeans had oil smudges on them. He had a plastic bag in one hand that smelled like Chinese and a six-pack in the other.

"Dean . . ." Sam said in a strangled whisper. "Dean, I ― it's not ―"

"Not you and Michael jerkin' your gherkins? I dunno, Sam, pretty sure that's all it _could_ be. 'Scuse me, I'll leave you two to it. And, hey, next time? Put a sock on the door, dudes." He put down the take-out and beer on the floor next to the door before exiting, shutting it firmly behind him.

Michael exhaled shakily ― he hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath during the exchange between Sam and Dean. "Sam? you, uh, you okay?" He feel clueless about how to proceed. Were they going to keep going? Call it off? What? What should he do?

# ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @

Dean walked briskly away from the motel room. He would like to have kept walking forever, or even better, to drive off into the proverbial sunset, but his stuff, including his favorite gun, was back in that motel room. Besides, he knew he had to deal with this. This wasn't one he could simply ignore, despite his heartfelt desire to do just that.

He got to the picnic tables and sat down heavily. Everything was so fucked up. Him and Sammy were fucked up in more ways than one, the current situation was fucked up, and he needed to get his head straight about it all. He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to breathe slowly and get his chest ― currently bound with iron bands ― to relax.

So. Sammy and Michael, sittin' in a tree. Sammy getting lucky. Well, damn, had to happen sometime, right? Sam was drop-dead handsome, with that stupid long hair and those ridiculous dimples and the annoying way his eyes changed color. Then there was the fact he was seven feet tall with enough muscles for fuckin' Hercules. That's without anyone even knowing that he was majorly hung. The only reason Sam had been alone these past few years was he'd chosen to be. 

And now, apparently, he'd chosen not to be. Dean sighed. He liked Michael, liked him a lot. Smart, kind, good hunter, and he was pretty easy on the eyes too. Judging from Dean had just seen from the doorway, the boy wasn't lacking in the dick department either. Very nicely proportioned. If Sam was gonna pick someone, he'd picked a winner. Nothing to complain about there.

Except . . . except . . . _shit!_ Except Dean was a possessive sonofabitch, even when it was something he couldn't rightly call his anymore. Someone. He'd closed that door his own damn self, thrown away the key. He'd danced on the grave of their relationship more times than he could count, fucked women right and left as he sought to satisfy his needs and fill the aching hole inside him. And he'd done it all in plain view of Sam too; never hesitated to hit on or pick up whomever struck his fancy, even with his former lover _right there_. He knew it hurt Sam, seeing Dean with those women, seeing them stroll off together, seeing them wrecked the next morning. It hadn't stopped him.

And now Dean knew firsthand how exquisite that pain was, how piercing the hurt, like a thousand hot skewers in his heart. It was intensified by knowing that this was just one time, only one time, and he'd done it to Sam a million, over and over and over again. He bent over, gagging as bile surged up his throat, bitterness overwhelming him at his thoughtless cruelty. _Dean Winchester, you are an asshole beyond words,_ he thought. _You selfish piece of shit_.

The searing comprehension of the pain kept sinking in, deeper and deeper like acid eating through him. _I didn't mean to. Didn't mean to hurt you, Sammy, not like that. It just hurt so bad not being with you, I didn't think about what I was doing. So, so stupid._ Tears overflowed his eyes, running down alongside his nose and into the corners of his twisted mouth. They tasted of guilt and remorse. _I'm so sorry, Sammy, so sorry you had to deal with this pain, too. How could I do that to you?_

He sat there for several minutes, letting the tears flow as he tried to breathe without too much pain. _Plan, I need a plan. Can't fucking sit here all night like some lovesick girl. Get moving, you jerkwad._ He wiped his eyes with the hem of his T-shirt, then remembered he still had a rag from the garage in his pocket. Avoiding the worst of the grease on it, he managed to blow his nose. He stood up and drew a couple of breaths before they hitched again. _See, progress. Now you go back there, Winchester, and you have a drink at the bar to dredge up some courage, and then you fucking smile at your brother and tell him how goddamn happy you are for him. This was what you wanted for him ― to find someone and be happy. So now you better deal with it._

Dean walked back to the bar, using his strides to help smooth out his breathing. It was mostly back to normal by the time he got there. He went in, sat at the bar, and ordered a glass and a bottle of Jack.

# ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @

Sam lay on the bed, stunned by Dean's surprise entrance and speedy departure. So many emotions whirled inside him that he didn't know what to do or say, he simply lay there unmoving. He didn't notice that his erection had gone soft, or Michael's either, until Michael spoke to him.

"Sam . . . Sam, can you let me up? Sam?" Michael's voice was soft. "Sam, let's get up, get ourselves together, okay? Sam? It's gonna be okay, man." He removed his hand from Sam's cock and gently pushed on his chest to start separating them.

Sam came out of his fog, realizing that Michael couldn't move until he did, that Sam had him pinned underneath his body. They were both still lying with their pants open, cocks pressed together. "Oh, Jesus, Michael . . . I'm so sorry." He rolled back to give Michael his freedom. Both men hastily tucked themselves away, pulling up and adjusting their boxers and zipping up their jeans. Every speck of arousal was gone, replaced by tension and uneasiness.

They sat on either side of the bed, an awkward silence binding them to silence. Sam felt hollowed out, with all the excitement and arousal now drained right out of him. _Dean came in and saw us,_ he thought dully. _Saw me about to make love with another man. Did it upset him? Is that why he left?_

"He left so we could continue, if we wanted to," said Michael quietly. "He was giving us our privacy."

Sam started at his words, realizing his last couple of sentences had been spoken aloud. "Oh . . . I'm sorry, Michael. I couldn't ―"

"No, man, no problem. That kind of interruption will throw off anyone's game." Michael smiled, picking up Sam's hand and holding it. "I couldn't after that either. I'm just worried about you."

"I should go find him. We should talk about this," Sam said. "Do you understand? I have to clear the air, find out what's ― how we are. I have to do that." His head felt empty, like the words were echoing around his skull.

"Yeah, yeah ― of course, I understand. Go ahead. Probably way past time for y'all to clear the air in the first place, I think." Michael stood up from the bed, adjusting himself as he did so. "Just, Sam? I'm still here, okay? I'm going to my room, but I'm staying here and I'm going to wait for you. We can talk after you see Dean." He walked to the door, closing it quietly behind him.

Sam sat on the bed for several minutes after Michael left. As the adrenaline from Dean's unexpected appearance waned, his thoughts began to take on substance. What he was conscious at the moment was the fact that he'd done nothing wrong. Whatever was going to happen between him and Dean, he hadn't done anything he regretted. He was a single man who was responsible for his own actions and decisions, including having sex. Just because he'd been celibate for a long ― a very long ― time didn't mean he had to stay that way. And God knows the shoe had been on the other foot too many times to count, with Dean's long parade of easy lays. If Dean had a problem with Sam and Michael becoming lovers, then that was all Dean's problem, not Sam's.

His sense of identity thus solidified, Sam thought about where Dean was most likely to be. That took all of ten seconds.

Dean was working on a bottle of Jack, it appeared to Sam when he walked into the bar. There was no discernible effect yet, but it took getting to the bottom third of the bottle for that to happen, usually. Sam pulled out the next stool and sat down, shaking his head at the bartender's silent offer.

"Hey, Dean." He looked at his brother, his partner, sitting there in an oil-smudged gray T-shirt and jeans, hunched over a glass that sat in a puddle on the scarred bar-top.

Dean slowly swiveled his head to study Sam. "Just peachy as fuck, bro." He downed a shot, poured another. "Where's your cuddly boy-toy?" He smirked.

Sam took a deep breath. Of course, Dean's usual reaction to conflict or distress was to get snarky as hell and push him away. "Michael went back to his room. He knew we needed some space to talk." He slid the bottle a couple of inches away. "Can we do that, Dean? Would you come back to our room and talk with me?"

Dean snorted and moved the bottle closer again. "I got nothin' to talk about, so I can keep sitting right here. You got somethin' on your chest, Sammy boy? Ya need to write to Dear Abby?" He poured and drank another shot.

"Dean, please ― can you stop drinking for a few minutes? I'd really rather have a discussion with you while you're still at least half-sober. And yes, I'd rather talk in our room instead of airing our private life to the entire bar!" Already the bartender was drifting back over, pretending not to listen as he wiped down glassware. Sam scowled at him.

"Fuck, Sammy, what private life? Only thing _private_ going on is you and the Beieb-clone there knocking uglies. Hey, who's gonna top? 'Cause as far as I remember, you're a bottom kinda guy. Unless that's changed over the years."

Sam stood up so abruptly his bar stool fell over. "Dean! What the hell? Is this what happens the first time the shoe is on the other foot? At least we didn't kick you out of your own damn room just to have sex! What the fuck is your problem? Are you jealous or really just an asshole?" His brother was so infuriating. No one could dig their head into the sand like Dean.

"Damn, Sammy, chill out! All right, all right, I'll come to the damn room with you. Jesus, what a bitch. I'm taking the rest of my bottle, though." Dean scooped up his bottle as he lazily got off his bar stool and meandered toward the door. Sam took a deep breath, unclenched his fists, and followed.

They got to the motel room and walked in. It was empty, Michael having left when Sam did. Sam had smoothed out the bed and put the food Dean had brought on top of the mini-fridge before he'd gone looking for Dean. Sam's stomach was in a knot, so eating was out of the question right now.

"Okay, Sam, here we are, in our oh-so-private room. What's the big shizz that you're all hot to talk about?" Dean got a beer out of the mini-fridge before sprawling in a chair.

"About you walking in on me and Michael earlier. You looked really upset, and I thought you might be wondering what happened while you were gone."

"What happened is you two lovebirds got all moony-eyed at each other and started doing the ol' one-eye tango. Then I walked in, just about got struck blind, and left. Don't tell me you boys finished already, or I'm gonna have to talk to you about your stamina."

"What are you ― ? There's nothing _wrong_ with my stamina!" Sam ran his hand over his face. Only Dean could get under his skin like this. "Of course we stopped! Jesus, Dean, could you please be a fucking adult for two fucking _seconds_ here?" Sam could feel his blood pressure rising higher and higher. "Do you even give a rat's ass about this? Am I wrong in thinking you even _care_ about me anymore?"

Dean sighed. "Of course I care about you, Sam, you're my brother. I want you to be happy. If you're happy with Michael, then fuck him, throw some goddamn confetti and let's get back to work." He took a sip from the whiskey bottle. " _Are_ you happy, Sammy? Is this what you want?"

Sam rubbed his hands over his face. "I don't know. Michael is a great guy. And he's a hunter, so he gets our life, he _shares_ our life. I just ― I don't even know what I want." He got up and walked to the window. "I don't want to be in pain anymore, Dean. I'm exhausted from it. I ― " His voice broke, and he cleared it, turning around to face Dean again. "We're together all the time, Dean. All the time, except when you ― pick up someone new. And yet, I'm alone. I can't talk about anything with you, can't meet anyone that I can be honest with, and until a hour ago, I couldn't remember the last time someone touched me with any kind of affection. I'm so incredibly alone, and it's killing me. Watching you fuck around so carelessly hurts me more than I can say. So basically I'm alone and in pain all the time, and for what? Why? Don't I get to have a life, at some point? I _want_ a life again. I want to not be in pain all the time. And I _can't_ . . ." Tears rolled down his face as he continued, "I can't have the life I want, apparently, so maybe I just need to finally make a new one." He stopped to take a deep breath. "What do you want, Dean? What do _you_ want?"

Watching Sam as he talked, Dean finally looked away as he bit a nail. "Don't matter, Sammy. I can't have what I want."

Fresh tears streaked Sam's face. "If it's me, Dean, I'm right here. I've been here all along."

The room was silent for several minutes. Finally Dean put the bottle down on the table, got up, and entered the bathroom. In the quiet, Sam heard the click of the lock.


	5. Chapter 5

Michael paced in his room, waiting for Sam to return. He wondered how the discussion with Dean was going. Sam had looked so upset. God, why did that have to happen? Why couldn't Dean have arrived half an hour later? Now it was like the passionate, loving moment had been made cheap by Dean's snide comments. It wasn't fair that Dean fucked anything that moved and Sam barely got to have a kiss.

He threw himself onto a bed and covered his face, sighing in frustration. He wanted to know what was happening in the other room. His body was still humming in semi-arousal; it was difficult to switch gears so fast, shut down all those responses. An image of Sam arose; cheeks pink, eyes dilated, a hint of moisture on his lips. He was so beautiful as he looked down at Michael, his hair falling around his face in waves. Michael's cock twitched anew, making him think about how incredible their naked dicks had felt pressed together. He felt a small, wet drop trickling down his half-hard cock inside his boxers. Jesus, he needed to think about something else or he was going to have to jerk off to settle down, and that just seemed really inappropriate right now.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door, and then it opened and Sam came in. Michael jumped off the bed, holding himself back from actually jumping on the man. Sam smiled briefly at the younger man's eager response, but the smile dropped a moment later. Michael felt a chill pass over his skin. No smiles couldn't be a good thing . . .

"Sit down with me, Michael," Sam said, moving over to the bed. 

"No. Just . . . just say it, Sam. I can guess what it is already, but just say it." Michael held himself very still.

Sam sat down on the foot of the bed. "I can't do this, Michael. I'm sorry. I want to . . . god, you're so gorgeous, and you're smart and funny and sweet, you're a good hunter, and I think we'd be great together. I do."

"Damn, Sam, for someone giving me the brush-off, you sound like you're arguing for my side." Michael huffed a small laugh.

Sam looked at his hands for a moment before meeting Michael's eyes again. "I can't do it. My heart ― it already belongs to someone. And even though," he raised his hand to forestall the words poised on Michael's lips, "even though that isn't going well, it's still how it is. I don't want to shortchange you just because I'm fucked up. It's not fair to you. You think you can look past this, but when the day comes that you realize you can never have all of me, then you're going to resent it. Resent me. I don't want that bitterness to happen to either of us."

"Not _going_ well? Shit, Sam, he's _oblivious!_ He's too busy screwing the female population of the country to see how much you love him! Not fair to _me?_ Where does being fair to you come in?" Michael couldn't help the passion in his voice. Sam didn't deserve this.

Sam gave him a wry smile. "Yeah, I know. I don't deserve it. But it's how the cards are. I can't leave him. And I'm not going to."

"So, is he going to change anything, now that he knows you're staying?" Michael could barely speak past the lump in his throat.

Sam shrugged as he replied, "Dunno . . . he doesn't know yet. I didn't tell him. He's locked in the bathroom right now; as far as he knows, I'm packing right now to leave with you."

The tears burning in Michael's eyes finally began to fall. He dashed a hand to brush them off and struggled to take a deep breath. "Wow. I ― wow. Um, I don't really know what to say. I guess ― maybe it's just best we say good-bye now, because frankly I've had about all the emotional turmoil I can take for the day. Or the year." He blew out a breath and turned to grab a duffel, plopping it on the other bed.

Sam stood up, his face sad. "I'm so sorry, Michael. I didn't see this ― you ― coming. And once things started moving, I really thought ― this is it. I'm going to be happy. _We'll_ be happy. I never thought it was going to turn out this way, and I'm so, so sorry. Hurting you is the last thing I ever want to do."

Michael nodded, swallowing hard as he collected his belongings. "I can appreciate that, Sam. Just, right now? Little hard to keep the appreciation uppermost if you know what I mean." He tossed T-shirts, boxers, and socks from the drawer onto the bed, scooping them up to stuff inside the bag. 

Sam moved to the door. "I know. I ― I'll go, let you finish." His hand on the doorknob, he turned around and looked at Michael. "We're all still hunters, so don't hesitate to call us if you need back-up, okay? And is there any chance that ― that we can be friends?" His mouth quivered at the last few words.

Michael stopped packing and looked back at Sam. "Yeah, we're friends now, dude. Dean too. Just ― just give me a little time, yeah?" His eyes roved over Sam's face, noting the moisture building in his multi-colored eyes. 

Sam started to step forward, but Michael hurried to the bathroom; he didn't want to take the chance of a good-bye hug, it would do him in. He started grabbing his toiletries, filling his kit bag and then his hands. He heard the outside door shut and latch, so he came out slowly, dumping his things into the duffel.

The room was empty. 

His knees gave out and he sank onto the floor, kneeling on the coarse, drab carpet. Leaning his head against the side of the mattress, Michael gave way to his tears.

# ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @ ~ # ~ @

Dean heard the room door open and shut, so he knew Sam was gone. He had probably gone down to Michael's room; they would be busy planning their departure. Dean wondered if he could get his shit together and hightail it out of there first, hit the road ahead of them. He felt too drained to move for the moment, though, so he just sat on the floor and closed his eyes, letting his mind wander among happier days. Days when he and Sam were still lovers, so close he never thought anything would come between them . . .

Finally he opened his eyes, squinting at the fluorescent light, and got up off the floor. His ass felt flat and numb. Dean unlocked the bathroom door and went out into the room; it was empty, as he'd expected. He dragged his duffel out of the closet and began rounding up his clothes. The Wonder Twins were probably shagging their brains out by now, so he probably didn't need to rush. They'd want to take their time, this being their big first and all. He resolutely turned his mind away from any thoughts about Sam's ripped body hiding under those shapeless clothes, his well-shaped cock, and his versatility and generosity as a lover. None of that bore thinking about now. Down, Dean, down.

He had most of his stuff packed and was just debating about taking the laptop when Sam walked in. His surprisingly tidy appearance startled Dean, who felt as if all the air had suddenly be sucked out of the room.

"What ― what are you doing here?" Dean forced the words out. Damn, where was all the oxygen?

Sam tilted his head and looked at him quizzically. "My room too, dude. All my stuff is here, see?" and he gestured around the room. His gaze fell upon the almost-full duffel, and his expression darkened as he asked, "What are you doing? What's with the bag?"

"Packing, Brainiac, what's it look like? I thought you'd be busy boffing Boy Wonder, figured I had time to make a clean getaway."

" _What?_ What the hell, Dean, what are you talking about? Nobody's _boffing_ anybody, and why are you leaving? Did a hunt come up?" Sam moved closer, bitch-face in full force.

Dean checked under both the bed and the dresser for stray items, snagging a T-shirt and a sock. He threw them into the bag. "You! You're porking Jimmy Olsen there! So I was gonna clear out, give you guys some space! Okay?" Sam reached for the duffel and Dean smacked his hand away. "Get offa that!"

Sam's face plainly showed his shock. "You're _leaving?_ Just like that? You're dumping me here in Bumfuck, Nebraska, and hitting the road? What's the matter, Dean, am I cramping your style? You busy running for the title of Biggest Man-whore in the Continental U.S?"

Dean's heartbreak was momentarily eclipsed by his fury. " _Fuck you,_ Sam! How about I fuck who _I_ wanna fuck, and you fuck who _you_ wanna fuck, and you leave _me_ the fuck _alone!_ " He angrily yanked the zipper of the duffel closed. "I'm leaving so that you and your new squeeze can practice happy ever after without having me underfoot! So get your goddamn gigantor ass _out_ of my way, and I'll hit the road!" He picked up the duffel and grabbed his jacket off the chair, heading for the door.

Suddenly he ran into a wall. A Sam-wall, standing between Dean and the door. Dean recoiled, rubbing his bruised nose. _Never let it be said,_ he thought grimly, _that Sam's size rules out speed._

" _Dean._ " Sam didn't say his name so much as growl it. Maelstrom of emotions aside, it made Dean shiver a little and his cock twitch. Sam didn't get real toppy too often back in the day, Dean mused, but it sure was pretty fuckin' hot when he did.

"Stop, Dean. Just _stop._ There is no Michael and me. We're not together. We're not going to be together. In fact, he's all packed up and leaving in a few minutes, so stop one goddamned minute and let us ― for _once_ ― sort this out, before we both go batshit crazy." Sam's voice continued to be several pitches lower than usual, and Dean was definitely responding to it. _Not now!_ he silently yelled at his wayward dick. _Focus! This is important!_

Sam was still glaring at him, and Dean realized he was probably waiting for a response. "Fine. Whatever. Sorry things didn't work out with your little twink there. Still doesn't mean I'm staying, so move your ginormous ass aside." He trained his own glare back onto Sam, duffel still clutched in his hand.

Suddenly Dean found himself horizontal, his back slammed against the bed with one large hand and a furious Sam looking down at him. "Damn it, Sam, what the hell are you doing? Get the fuck offa me! I've had enough of your crap today!"

" _My crap,_ Dean? _MY_ crap?" Sam barked, ending on a slightly hysterical note. He laughed harshly. "Oh man, you take the fuckin' cake, big brother. You spend months ― _years_ ― parading your bimbos and hook-ups in front of me. I have to walk into rooms reeking of their perfume, the goddamn smell of sex still hanging in the air. You broke my heart years ago, and you've been trampling on it ever since. And you have the nerve to say my crap? Think again, Dean, and decide who's dealing out the _crap_ here!"

Dean looked into Sam's eyes and saw the reservoir of anger, hurt, and grief his brother had never expressed, instead keeping it bottled up and festering. His heart crumbled under the weight of his guilt; it had been one thing to break Sammy's heart for the greater good, but another to treat him so cruelly, and for such a long time. He'd been so intent on trying to bear his own heartbreak that he'd lost sight of how deeply his brother was suffering as well. Pain and sorrow for Sam flooded him as he lay there, rendering his body heavy and his mind broken. He raised one hand slowly and laid it gently on Sam's wet cheek.

He said huskily, "I'm sorry, little brother. Didn't mean to hurt you so bad; didn't mean to be a such an asshole. I'm so, so sorry."

Tears ran from Sam's blue-green eyes, dripping onto Dean's face. "I can't _do_ this anymore, Dean. Whatever happens, it's changing now, because I can't watch you anymore. Can't keep hurting like this, over and over and over. So you gotta decide. You want me? Then it's all of me. It's _us_. Otherwise it's you off on your own, because I'm gonna leave . . . and it'll be for good. So think about it, Dean, think about it real hard and decide. Either way, I'm done with things the way they are now. Leaving you won't hurt as bad as staying like this."

The little wet drops falling onto Dean stopped as Sam got up and moved away, his tall frame hunched as he wiped his face. He went into the bathroom and locked the door behind him, leaving Dean alone and still sprawled on the bed.

Dean didn't move for several moments. The weight of acknowledging Sammy's emotions kept him pinned as surely as any physical force. He wondered at the wetness on his face, since Sam wasn't crying on him anymore, and it took his own hand on his eyes to make him realize they were _his_ tears now. He slowly sat up; it took a lot of effort to move, like he was on Jupiter and the gravity was times a billion. There was silence from the bathroom for several beats, then the sound of water running began, and Dean envisioned Sam splashing his face. Dean's sleeve sufficed for him as a face cloth for now, the soft flannel drying and whisking the tears away. 

He sat very, very still, as if he was on a stake-out and the slightest sound or movement could bring his immediate death. And wasn't that true here? The wrong gesture and his world would finish blowing up, after which he might as well be dead. Oh, he could physically survive Sammy's leaving; could go on hunting, drinking, driving Baby from place to place, fucking strangers. But his soul would shrivel up, finally desiccating from the lack of Sammy. He might as well be a robot. He could live for years like that . . . or until the utter emptiness inside him drove him to sacrifice himself in a hunt. If he didn't eat his gun before then.

Stupid, he thought despairingly. _So stupid to think you could live without Sam._ Such an utter idiot not to realize that Sam was the kernel of his humanity. That it was Sam's love that truly fueled him. _God, Dean, these last few years, everything you've done ― you'll never make it up to him._ Can't _ever make it up to him. Maybe you_ should _just leave and get it over with, let him build a life like you thought he would. A life with someone good like Michael._ He knuckled his eyes, clenching his jaw in grim determination that he wasn't going to break down again. _Can't even keep it together for five minutes ― what good am I to him anymore? Is this it? Do you really want me anymore, Sammy, or do you want to be free?_

The bathroom door opened and Sam emerged, all red-rimmed eyes, clenched hands, and stiff walk. He stopped as soon as he was out of the bathroom, eyes leveled at Dean.

"Okay, Dean. This is it. For once in your life, face the mess between us and talk to me."

Dean felt his chest tighten, his breath shorten. _Say something, asshole!_ He uttered a dry little croak.

Sam's jaw muscle jumped. "You don't get to cop out here. You have to say something. You have to choose. Stand up for what you want and _say something!_ What is it you want, Dean? Us? Or to keep going the same old way, alone?"

_I want you to be happy, Sammy. Want you to be smiling and joking again, want you to have amazing sex with someone you love. Want you to know how wonderful you are, how special. Don't want your life to end because of me._

Sam walked up to him and stared directly into Dean's eyes. Dean tried to not get distracted by the gold flecks in those tip-tilted eyes. "Dean. What. Do. You. Want?"

I can't, Sammy. I can't. Dean opens his mouth to speak, to gasp for air. "Sammy . . ."

"I'm right here, Dean. But you have to say it, because otherwise in one minute I'm walking out that door. I'm _done,_ Dean, I can't do this anymore. So _choose!_ "

Dean opened and closed his mouth. _Can't lose Sammy. Can't risk loving him. Oh God, how do I . . .?_

"Jesus, Dean! I can't believe this! Or I can, unfortunately. You're so walled up, Dean. You used to be open to me, with me, but you've been closed off for years now. Fine. I get it. I'll be on my way in five minutes, and you can have all the space you need, all the pussy you want, and just have a _grand_ old fucking time!" The anger in Sam's voice rose to semi-hysterical in pitch as he grabbed his clothing and threw it on his bed. He slammed the laptop shut and stuffed it into his backpack, sliding it over a shoulder as the last items were similarly stuffed into his duffel. 

"Sammy . . . "

"There! You find anything of mine, you can keep it or pitch it, I'm not leaving an address. I'm done and I'm gone. Good-bye, Dean." Sam strode to the door and threw it open.

"Wait! Wait, Sammy! Please . . . don't go."

Sam turned around to face Dean. "Why not? What's even left to say, Dean?"

"Please ― please don't go. Don't leave." It took all of Dean's effort to get the words out. "Sammy, I ― I need you. Always needed you." As he kept talking, it was starting to come easier, his lungs and mouth becoming more synchronized. "I've always needed you, little brother."

Sam stayed on the doorsill, but he was still listening at least. "Okay. You need whiskey and women too. Where do I rank in there? Is that it?" His voice got quieter as he continued, "Dean, I have to know. I have to take a stand for myself. I have to count for once, be valued, before I'm just a ― a ghost in my own life." He looked ready to take off, only the slight turn of his body and tilt of his head showing his attention toward Dean.

"No. That's not it. I mean, it's true, but it's not all." Dean walked over and stood only a few inches from Sam. He almost resisted the impulse to grab Sam's arm, then gave in to it instead, wrapping his hand around Sam's forearm. Sam's arm was solid and firm, warm underneath the flannel sleeve covering it, contoured with muscle and sinew. Dean tightened his grip, wondering how long had it been since he'd even touched Sam, taking a second to revel in the feel of his brother. It was as if Sam's own strength and heat flooded into Dean through that grip, and he felt his own self, the self that had been in decay for so long, reviving. He looked back up at Sam's questioning face and found he could smile.

"I've been so stupid, Sammy. I'm sorry. I'll probably be saying that for a long time. But what's more important than that is ― I love you. I've loved you all this time, and I've wasted a lot of time and energy hiding that, but no more. I'm the one who's done now ― done denying how I feel, done hiding it. Done treating you like crap. I love you, you're the most important person in the world to me, and if you can start to forgive me at all, I promise to never forget that again." He pulled Sam into his arms and hugged him tightly, wrapping his arms around Sam's big frame, feeling the utter strength of the man beneath his hands. Sam felt stiff inside his arms for a moment and then he relaxed, embracing Dean.

"Dean ― do you mean it? Not yanking my chain here?" Sam whispered, lips brushing the shell of Dean's ear. "Because I don't think I can ― "

Dean squeezed him. "Not yanking your chain. God's honest truth. Always belonged to you, Sammy, even when I tried to run from it." He pulled back a little so he could look up into Sam's face. "I know there's gonna be a lot of trust to rebuild, but I'll do whatever you need. Anything. Just tell me, and I promise to listen. Not gonna lie, you may need to whack me over the head now and then ― I've developed a lot of bad habits." He kissed Sam's cheek, reveling in his brother's smooth skin and spicy smell. He moved his mouth and pressed it against Sam's lips, firm and pink, felt them open beneath the pressure of his kiss, thrilled as Sam's tongue slid against his. His heart beat faster as they kissed, and he broke it only because the intensity of his emotions rose so high, he felt overwhelmed. Overwhelmed and grateful.

"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you."

Sam sniffed and gave a little half-laugh. "You're stuck with me now, jerk."

Dean gave him a big smile and kissed him again. "Works for me, bitch."


End file.
